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This  book  is  due  at  the  LOUIS  R.  WILSON  LIBRARY  on  the 
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DATE 

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DATE 

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*  P'"'1 

c . . 

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MA' 

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SEP  3  0  201 

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Form  No.  513 

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THE  VICAR’S  DAUGHTER, 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2019  with  funding  from 
University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


https://archive.org/details/vicarsdaughterau00macd_1 


\ 


THE 


\/  iL.ry 

\f  **7  / 
.  /  /  / 


Vicar’s  Daughter 

AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  STORY 


V 


BY 

GEORGE  MACDONALD 

BEING  A  SEQUEL  TO  “  ANNALS  OF  A  QUIET  NEIGHBORHOOD  ”  AND 

“THE  SEABOARD  PARISH.” 


BOST 


D.  LOTHROP  AND  COMPANY 
32  Franklin  Street 


- 


*  ' 


■ 


. 


CONTENTS. 


o 

'Si 

<r 


^vww\ 

CHAP.  PAG© 


I.  INTRODUCTORY  .  .  « 

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« 

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i 

II.  I  TRY . 

9 

III.  MY  WEDDING  .  .  * 

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IV.  JUDY’S  VISIT  .  , 

27 

V.  “good  society”  .  , 

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32 

VI.  A  REFUGE  FROM  THE  HEAT 

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37 

VII.  CONNIE  .... 

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43 

VIII.  CONNIE’S  BABY  .  « 

47 

IX.  THE  FOUNDLING  RE-FOUND 

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54 

X.  WAGTAIL  COMES  TO  HONOUR 

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6o 

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XI.  A  STUPID  CHAPTER  . 

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XII.  AN  INTRODUCTION  . 

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70 

XIII.  A  NEGATIVED  PROPOSAL  . 

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XIV.  MY  FIRST  DINNER-PARTY  . 

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XV.  A  PICTURE  .  .  . 

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90 

XVI.  RUMOURS  .... 

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95 

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V. 


t 


VI 


Contents , 


CHAP.  PAOH 


XVII.  A  DISCOVERY  . 

105 

XVIII.  MISS  CLARE  . 

» 

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113 

XIX.  MISS  CLARE’S- HOME 

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1 18 

XX.  HER  STuRY  .  • 

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124 

XXI.  A  REMARKABLE  FACT 

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145 

XXII.  LADY  BERNARD 

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152 

XXIII.  MY  SECOND  DINNER-PARTY 

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156 

XXIV.  THE  END  OF  THE  EVENING 

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173 

XXV.  MY  FIRST  TERROR  . 

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179 

XXVI.  ITS  SEQUEL  .  . 

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197 

XXVII.  TROUBLES 

208 

XXVIII.  MISS  CLARE  AMONGST 

HER 

FRIENDS 

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217 

XXIX.  MR.  MORLEY  . 

t 

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225 

XXX.  A  STRANGE  TEXT  . 

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237 

XXXI.  ABOUT  SERVANTS  . 

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263 

XXXII.  ABOUT  PERCIVALE  . 

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269 

XXXIII.  MY  SECOND  TERROR 

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275 

J 

XXXIV.  THE  CLOUDS  AFTER  THE  RAIN 

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281 

XXXV.  THE  SUNSHINE 

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291 

XXXVI.  WHAT  LADY  BERNARD 

THOUGHT 

OF 

IT 

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296 

XXXVII.  RETROSPECTIVE 

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299 

XXXVIII.  MRS.  CROMWELL  COMES 

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303 

S 


Contents . 


•  • 

vn 


CHAP. 

XXXIX.  MRS.  CROMWELL  GOES  •  •  •  , 

XL.  ANCESTRAL  WISDOM  •  .  •  , 

XLI.  CHILD  NONSENSE  .  .  .  , 

XLII.  DOUBLE,  DOUBLE,  TOIL  AND  TROUBLE 
XLIII.  ROGER  AND  MARION  . 


PAGE 

•  323 

•  337 

•  344 

•  353 
.  361 


XLIV.  A  LITTLE  MORE  ABOUT  ROGER,  AND  ABOUT  MR. 

BLACKSTONE  ,  *  «  ,  ,  .  .  368 

XLV.  THE  DEA  EX  ,  ,  t  ,  ,  »  *  .371 


THE  VICAR’S  DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER  I. 

INTRODUCTORY. 

I  think  that  is  the  way  my  father  would  begin.  My  name 
is  Ethel wyn  Percivale,  and  used  to  be  Ethelwyn  Walton.  I 
always  put  the  Walton  in  between  when  I  write  to  my  father, 
for  I  think  it  is  quite  enough  to  have  to  leave  father  and  mother 
behind  for  a  husband,  without  leaving  their  name  behind  you 
also.  I  am  fond  of  lumber  rooms,  and  in  some  houses  consider 
them  far  the  most  interesting  spots ;  but  I  don’t  choose  that 
my  old  name  should  lie  about  in  the  one  at  home. 

I  am  much  afraid  of  writing  nonsense,  but  my  father  tells  me 
that  to  see  things  in  print  is  a  great  help  to  recognizing  whether 
they  are  nonsense  or  not.  And  he  tells  me  too  that  his  friend, 
the  publisher,  who — but  I  will  speak  of  him  presently — his 
friend  the  publisher  is  not  like  any  other  publisher  he  ever  met 
with  before,  for  he  is  so  fond  of  good  work  that  he  never 
grumbles  at  any  alterations  waiters  choose  to  make — at  least  he 
never  says  anything,  although  it  costs  a  great  deal  to  shift  the 
types  again  after  they  are  once  set  up.  The  other  part  of  my 
excuse  for  attempting  to  write,  lies  simply  in  telling  how  it 
came  about. 

Ten  days  ago,  my  father  came  up  from  Marshmallows  to  pay 


2 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter. 

us  a  visit.  He  is  with  us  now,  but  we  don’t  see  much  of  him 
all  day,  for  he  is  generally  out  with  a  friend  of  his  in  the  East 
End,  the  parson  of  one  of  the  poorest  parishes  in  London — 
who  thanks  God  that  he  wasn’t  the  nephew  of  any  bishop  to  be 
put  into  a  good  living,  for  he  learns  more  about  the  ways  of 
God  from  having  t<?  do  with  plain — yes,  vulgar  human  nature, 
than  the  thickness  of  the  varnish  would  ever  have  permitted 
him  to  discover  in  what  are  called  the  higher  orders  of  society. 
Yet  I  must  say  that  amongst  those  I  have  recognized  as  nearest 
the  sacred  communism  of  the  early  church — a  phrase  of  my 
father’s — are  two  or  three  people  of  rank  and  wealth  whose 
names — are  written  in  heaven,  and  need  not  be  set  down  in  my 
poor  story. 

A  few  days  ago  then,  my  father,  coming  home  to  dinner, 
brought  with  him  the  publisher  of  the  two  books — called  the 
Annals  of  a  Quiet  Neighbourhood  and  The  Seaboard  Parish. 
The  first  of  these  had  lain  by  him  for  some  years  before  my 
father  could  publish  it,  and  then  he  remodelled  it  a  little  for  the 
magazine  in  which  it  came  out  a  portion  at  a  time.  The 
second  was  written  at  the  request  of  Mr.  S.,  who  wanted  some¬ 
thing  more  of  the  same  sort ;  and  now,  after  some  years,  he 
had  begun  again  to  represent  to  my  father,  at  intervals,  the 
necessity  for  another  story  to  complete  the  trilogy ,  as  he  called 
it ;  insisting,  when  my  father  objected  the  difficulties  of growing 
years  and  failing  judgment,  that  indeed  he  owed  it  to  him,  for 
he  had  left  him  in  the  lurch,  as  it  were,  with  an  incomplete 
story,  not  to  say  an  uncompleted  series.  My  father  still  objected, 
and  Mr.  S.  still  urged,  until  at  length  my  father  said— this  I 
learned  afterwards  of  course :  “  What  would  you  say  if  I  found 
you  a  substitute  ?  ”  “  That  depends  on  who  the  substitute 

might  be,  Mr.  Walton,”  said  Mr.  S.  The  result  of  their  talk 
was  that  my  father  brought  him  home  to  dinner  that  day,  and 
hence  it  comes  that,  with  some  real  fear  and  much  metaphorical 
trembling,  I  am  now  writing  this.  I  wonder  if  anybody  will 
ever  read  it.  This  my  first  chapter  shall  be  composed  of  a 
little  of  the  talk  that  passed  at  our  dinner-table  that  day.  Mr. 


Introductory .  3 

Blackstone  was  the  only  other  stranger  present,  and  he  certainly 
was  not  much  of  a  stranger. 

“  Do  you  keep  a  diary,  Mrs.  Percivale  ?  ”  asked  Mr.  S.,  with 
a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  as  if  he  expected  an  indignant  repudiation. 

“  I  would  rather  keep  a  rag  and  bottle  shop,”  I  answered, 
at  which  Mr.  Blackstone  burst  into  one  of  his  splendid  roars 
of  laughter — for  if  ever  a  man  could  laugh  like  a  Christian  who 
believed  the  world  was  in  a  fair  way  after  all,  that  man  was 
Mr.  Blackstone ;  and  even  my  husband,  who  seldom  laughs  at 
anything  I  say  with  more  than  his  eyes,  was  infected  by  it  and 
laughed  heartily. 

“  That’s  rather  a  strong  assertion,  my  love,”  said  my  father. 
“  Pray  what  do  you  mean  by  it  ?  ” 

“  I  mean,  papa,”  I  answered,  “  that  it  would  be  a  more 
profitable  employment  to  keep  the  one  than  the  other.” 

“  I  suppose  you  think,”  said  Mr.  Blackstone,  “  that  the  lady 
who  keeps  a  diary  is  in  the  same  danger  as  the  old  woman  who 
prided  herself  in  keeping  a  strict  account  of  her  personal 
expenses.  And  it  always  was  correct,  for  when  she  could  not 
get  it  to  balance  at  the  end  of  the  week,  she  brought  it  right  by 
putting  down  the  deficit  as  charity .” 

“  That’s  just  what  I  mean,”  I  said. 

“  But,”  resumed  M  '.  S.,  “  I  did  not  mean  a  diary  of  your 
feelings,  but  of  the  eve  nts  of  the  day  and  hour.” 

“  Which  are  never  in  themselves  worth  putting  down,”  I 
said.  “  All  that  is  worth  remembering  will  find  for  itself  some 
convenient  cranny  to  go  to  sleep  in  till  it  is  wanted,  without 
being  made  a  poor  mummy  of  in  a  diary.” 

“  If  you  have  such  a  memory,  I  grant  that  is  better — even 
for  my  purpose — much  better,”  said  Mr.  S. 

“For  your  purpose  !  ”  I  repeated,  in  surprise.  “  I  beg  your 
pardon,  but  wThat  designs  can  you  have  upon  my  memory  ?  ” 

“  Well,  I  suppose  I  had  better  be  as  straightforward  as  I  know 
you  wrould  like  me  to  be,  Mrs.  Percivale.  I  want  you  to  make 
up  the  sum  your  father  owres  me.  He  owred  me  three  books ; 
he  has  paid  me  two.  I  wrant  the  third  from  you.” 

b  2 


4  The  Vicar's  Daughter. 

I  laughed,  for  the  very  notion  of  writing  a  book  seemed 
prej  osterous. 

“  I  want  you,  under  feigned  names  of  course,”  he  went  on, 
“  as  are  all  the  names  in  your  father’s  two  books,  to  give  me 
the  further  history  of  the  family,  and  in  particular  your  own 
experiences  in  London.  I  am  confident  the  history  of  your 
married  life  must  contain  a  number  of  incidents  which,  without 
the  least  danger  of  indiscretion,  might  be  communicated  to 
the  public  to  the  great  advantage  of  all  who  read  them.” 

“You  forget,”  I  said,  hardly  believing  him  to  be  in  earnest, 
“  that  I  should  be  exposing  my  story  to  you  and  Mr.  Blackstone 
at  least.  If  I  were  to  make  the  absurd  attempt — I  mean  absurd 
as  regards  my  ability — I  should  be  always  thinking  of  you  twro 
as  my  public,  and  whether  it  would  be  right  for  me  to  say  this 
and  say  that ;  which,  you  may  see  at  once,  would  render  it 
impossible  for  me  to  write  at  all.” 

“  I  think  I  can  suggest  a  way  out  of  that  difficulty,  Wynnie,” 
said  my  father.  “You  must  write  freely,  all  you  feel  inclined 
to  write,  and  then  let  your  husband  see  it.  You  may  be  con¬ 
tent  to  let  all  pass  that  he  passes.” 

“You  don’t  say  you  really  mean  it,  papa!  The  thing  is 
perfectly  impossible.  I  never  wrote  a  book  in  my  life,  and — ” 

a  No  more  did  I,  my  dear,  before  I  b  :gan  my  first.” 

‘But  you  grew  up  to  it  by  degrees,  papa.” 

I  have  no  doubt  that  will  make  it  the  easier  for  you  when 
you  try.  I  am  so  far  at  least  a  Darwinian  as  to  believe  that.” 

“  But,  really,  Mr.  S.  ought  to  have  more  sense — I  beg  your 
pardon,  Mr.  S.,  but  it  is  perfectly  absurd  to  suppose  me  capable 
of  finishing  anything  my  father  has  begun.  I  assure  you  I 
don’t  feel  flattered  by  your  proposal.  I  have  got  a  man  of 
more  consequence  for  a  father  than  that  would  imply.” 

All  this  time  my  tall  husband  sat  silent  at  the  foot  of 
the  table,  as  if  he  had  nothing  on  earth  to  do  with  the  affair, 
instead  of  coming  to  my  assistance,  when,  as  I  thought,  I  really 
needed  it,  especially  seeing  my  own  father  was  of  the  combina¬ 
tion  against  me.  For  what  can  be  more  miserable  than  to  be 


Introductory.  5 

taken  for  wiser  or  better  or  cleverer  than,  you  know  perfectly 
well,  you  are  ?  I  looked  down  the  table,  straight  and  sharp  at 
him,  thinking  to  rouse  him  by  the  most  powerful  of  silent 
appeals ;  and  when  he  opened  his  mouth  very  solemnly,  staring 
at  me  in  return  down  all  the  length  of  the  table,  I  thought  I 
had  succeeded.  But  I  was  not  a  little  surprised  when  1  heard 
him  say, — 

“  I  think,  Wynnie,  as  your  father  and  Mr.  S.  appear  to  wish 
it,  you  might  at  least  try.” 

This  almost  overcame  me,  and  I  was  very  near — never  mind 
what.  I  bit  my  lips  and  tried  to  smile,  but  felt  as  if  all  my 
friends  had  forsaken  me,  and  were  about  to  turn  me  out  to  beg 
my  bread.  How  on  earth  could  I  write  a  book  without  making 
a  fool  of  myself !  ” 

“  You  know,  Mrs.  Percivale,”  said  Mr.  S.,  “  you  needn’t  be 
afraid  about  the  composition,  and  the  spelling,  and  all  that. 
We  can  easily  set  those  to  rights  at  the  office.” 

He  couldn’t  have  done  anything  better  to  send  the  lump  out 
of  my  throat,  for  this  made  me  angry. 

“  I  am  not  in  the  least  anxious  about  the  spelling,”  I 
answered  ;  “  and  for  the  rest,  pray  what  is  to  become  of  me,  if 
what  you  print  should  happen  to  be  praised  by  somebody  who 
likes  my  husband  or  my  father,  and  therefore  wants  to  savy 
a  good  word  for  me?  That’s  what  a  good  deal  of  reviewing 
comes  to,  I  understand.  Am  I  to  receive  in  silence  what 
doesn’t  belong  to  me,  or  am  I  to  send  a  letter  to  the  papers  to 
say  that  the  whole  thing  was  patched  and  polished  at  the  printing 
office,  and  that  I  have  no  right  to  more  than  perhaps  a  fourth 
part  of  the  commendation  ?  How  would  that  do  ?  ” 

“  But  you  forget  it  is  not  to  have  your  name  to  it,”  he  said  ; 
“  and  so  it  won’t  matter  a  bit.  There  will  be  nothing  dishonest 
about  it” 

“You  forget  that  although  nobody  knows  my  real  name, 
everybody  will  know  that  I  am  the  daughter  of  that  Mr. 
Walton  who  would  have  thrown  his  pen  in  the  fire  if  you  had 
meddled  with  anything  he  wrote.  They  would  be  praising  me, 


6 


The  Vicar's  Daughter . 

if  they  praised  at  all.  The  name  is  nothing.  Of  all  things, 
to  have  praise  you  don’t  deserve,  and  not  to  be  able  to  reject 
it,  is  the  most  miserable !  It  is  as  bad  as  painting  one’s 
face.” 

“  Hardly  a  case  in  point,”  said  Mr.  Blackstone.  “For  the 
artificial  complexion  would  be  your  own  work,  and  the  other 
would  not.” 

“  If  you  come  to  discuss  that  question,”  said  my  father,  “we 
must  all  confess  we  have  had  in  our  day  to  pocket  a  good  many 
more  praises  than  we  had  a  right  to.  I  agree  with  you,  how¬ 
ever,  my  child,  that  we  must  not  connive  at  anything  of  the 
sort.  So  I  will  propose  this  clause  in  the  bargain  between  you 
and  Mr.  S. — namely,  that  if  he  finds  any  fault  with  your  work, 
he  shall  send  it  back  to  yourself  to  be  set  right,  and  if  you 
cannot  do  so  to  his  mind,  you  shall  be  ofif  the  bargain.” 

“  But  papa— Percivale  — both  of  you  know  well  enough  that 
nothing  ever  happened  to  me  worth  telling.” 

“  I  am  sorry  your  life  has  been  so  very  uninteresting, 
wife,”  said  my  husband,  grimly  ;  for  his  fun  is  always  so  like 
earnest ! 

“  You  know  well  enough  what  I  mean,  husband.  It  does 
not  follow  that  what  has  been  interesting  enough  to  you  and  me 
will  be  interesting  to  people  who  know  nothing  at  all  about  us 
to  begin  with.” 

“It  depends  on  how  it  is  told,”  said  Mr.  S. 

“Then,  I  beg  leave  to  say,  that  I  never  had  an  original 
thought  in  my  life,  and  that  if  I  were  to  attempt  to  tell  my 
history  the  result  would  be  as  silly  a  narrative  as  ever  one  old 
woman  told  another  by  the  workhouse  fire.”  »' 

“  And  I  only  wish  I  could  hear  the  one  old  woman  tell  her 
story  to  the  other,”  said  my  father. 

“  Ah  !  but  that’s  because  you  see  ever  so  much  more  in  it 
than  shows.  You  always  see  through  the  words  and  the  things 
to  something  lying  behind  them,”  I  said. 

“  Well,  if  you  told  the  story  rightly,  other  people  would  see 
such  things  behind  it  too.” 


Introductory .  7 

“  Not  enough  of  people  to  make  it  worth  while  for  Mr.  S.  to 
print  it,”  I  said. 

“  He’s  not  going  to  print  it  except  he  thinks  it  worth  his 
while, 'and  you  may  safely  leave  that  to  him,”  said  my  hus> 
band. 

“And  so  I’m  to  write  a  book  as  bigas  the  Annals ,  and  after 
I’ve  been  slaving  at  it  for  half  a  century  or  so,  I’m  to  be  told 
it  won’t  do,  and  all  my  labour  must  go  for  nothing  ?  I  must 
say  the  proposal  is  rather  a  cool  one  to  make — to  the  mother  of 
a  family.” 

“Not  at  all; — that’s  not  it,  I  mean,”  said  Mr.  S. — “If  you 
will  write  a  dozen  pages  or  so,  I  shall  be  able  to  judge  by  those 
well  enough — at  least  I  will  take  all  the  responsibility  on  my¬ 
self  after  that” 

“  There’s  a  fair  offer  !  ”  said  my  husband.  “  It  seems  to  me, 
Wynnie,  that  all  that  is  wanted  of  you  is  to  tell  your  tale  so 
that  other  people  can  recognize  the  human  heart  in  it — the 
heart  that  is  like  their  own,  and  be  able  to  feel  as  if  they  were 
themselves  going  through  the  things  you  recount.” 

“  You  describe  the  work  of  a  genius,  and  coolly  ask  me  to  do 
it.  Besides,  I  don’t  want  to  be  set  thinking  about  my  heart, 
and  all  that,”  I  said  peevishly. 

“Now  don’t  be  raising  objections  where  none  exist,”  he 
returned. 

“  If  you  mean  I  am  pretending  to  object,  I  have  only  to  say 
that  I  feel  all  one  great  objection  to  the  whole  affair,  and  tha^ 
I  won’t  touch  it.” 

They  were  all  silent,  and  I  felt  as  if  I  had  behaved  un¬ 
graciously.  Then  first  I  felt  as  if  I  might  have  to  do  it  after  all. 
But  I  couldn’t  see  my  way  in  the  least. 

“Now  what  is  there,”  I  asked,  “in  all  my  life  that  is 
worth  setting  down — I  mean  as  I  should  be  able  to  set  it 
down  ? ” 

“  What  do  you  ladies  talk  about  now,  in  your  morning  calls  ?  ” 
suggested  Mr.  Blackstone,  with  a  humorous  glance  from  his 
deep  black  eyes. 


8 


The  Vicar's  Daughter . 

“  Nothing  worth  writing  about,  as  I  am  sur q  you  will  readily 
believe,  Mr.  Blackstone,”  I  answered. 

“  How  comes  it  to  be  interesting  then  ?  ” 

“  But  it  isn’t.  They — we — only  talk  about  the  weather  and 
our  children  and  servants,  and  that  sort  of  thing.” 

“  Well t ”  said  Mr.  S. — “and  I  wish  I  could  get  anything 
sensible  about  the  weather  and  children  and  servants,  and  that 
sort  of  thing,  for  my  magazine.  I  have  a  weakness  in  the 
direction  of  the  sensible.” 

“  But  there  never  is  anything  sensible  said  about  any  of  them 
— not  that  I  know  of.” 

“  Now,  Wynnie,  I  am  sure  you  are  wrong,”  said  my  father, 
“  There  is  your  friend,  Mrs.  Cromwell :  I  am  certain  she,  some¬ 
times  at  least,  must  say  what  is  worth  hearing  about  such 
matters.” 

“  Well,  but  she’s  an  exception.  Besides,  she  hasn’t  any 
children.” 

“Then,”  said  my  husband,  “there’s  Lady  Bernard — ” 

“  Ah — but  she  was  like  no  one  else.  Besides,  she  is  almost 
a  public  character,  and  anything  said  about  her,  would  betray 
my  original.” 

“  It  would  be  no  matter.  She  is  beyond  caring  for  that 
now;  and  not  one  of  her  friends  could  object  to  anything  you 
who  loved  her  so  much  would  say  about  her.” 

The  mention  of  this  lady  seemed  to  put  some  strength  into 
me.  I  felt  as  if  I  did  know  something  worth  telling,  and  I  was 
silent  in  my  turn. 

“Certainly,”  Mr.  S.  resumed,  “whatever  is  worth  talking 
about  is  worth  writing  about — though  not  perhaps  in  the  way 
it  is  talked  about.  Besides,  Mrs.  Percivale,  my  clients  want  to 
know  more  about  your  sisters  and  little  Theodora  or  Dorothea, 
or  what  was  her  name  in  the  book  ?  ” 

The  end  of  it  was  that  I  agreed  to  try  to  the  extent  of  a 
dozen  pages  or  so. 


I  Try . 


9 


CHAPTER  II. 

I  TRY. 

I  hope  no  one  will  think  I  try  to  write  like  my  father,  for  that 
would  be  to  go  against  what  he  always  made  a  great  point  of 
— that  nobody  whatever  should  imitate  any  other  person  what¬ 
ever,  but  in  modesty  and  humility  allow  the  seed  that  God  had 
sown  in  her  to  grow.  He  said  all  imitation  tended  to  dwarf 
and  distort  the  plant,  if  it  even  allowed  the  seed  to  germinate 
at  all.  So  if  I  do  write  like  him,  it  will  be  because  I  cannot 
help  it. 

I  will  just  look  how  The  Seaboard  Parish  ends,  and  perhaps 
that  will  put  into  my  head  how  I  ought  to  begin.  I  see  my 
father  does  mention  that  I  had  then  been  Mrs.  Percivale  for 
many  years.  Not  so  very  many  though — five  or  six,  if  I 
remember  rightly,  and  that  is  three  or  four  years  ago.  Yes, 
I  have  been  married  nine  years.  I  may  as  well  say  a  word  as 
to  how  it  came  about,  and  if  Percivale  doesn’t  like  it,  the 
remedy  lies  in  his  pen.  I  shall  be  far  more  thankful  to  have 
anything  struck  out  on  suspicion  than  remain  on  sufferance. 

After  our  return  home  from  Kilkhaven,  my  father  and  mother 
had  a  good  many  talks  about  me  and  Percivale,  and  sometimes 
they  took  different  sides.  I  will  give  a  shadow  of  one  of  these 
conversations.  I  think  ladies  can  write  fully  as  natural  talk 
as  gentlemen  can,  though  the  bits  between  mayn’t  be  so  good. 

Mother. — I  am  afraid,  my  dear  husband,  (this  was  my 
mother’s  most  solemn  mode  of  addressing  my  father) — they 
are  too  like  each  other  to  make  a  suitable  match. 

Father. —  I  am  sorry  to  learn  you  consider  me  so  very  unlike 
yourself,  Ethelwyn.  I  had  hoped  there  was  a  very  strong 
resemblance  indeed,  and  that  the  match  had  not  pioved  alto¬ 
gether  unsuitable. 

Mother. — Just  think,  though,  what  would  have  become  of 
me  by  this  time,  if  you  had  been  half  as  unbelieving  a  creature 


io  The  Vicar's  Daughter . 

as  I  was.  Indeed  I  fear  sometimes  I  am  not  much  better 
now. 

Father. — I  think  I  am  then ;  and  I  know  you’ve  done  me 
nothing  but  good  with  your  unbelief.  It  was  just  because  I 
was  of  the  same  sort  precisely  that  I  was  able  to  understand 
and  help  you.  My  circumstances  and  education  and  superior 
years — 

Mother . — Now  don’t  plume  yourself  on  that,  Harry,  for  you 
know  everybody  says  you  look  much  the  younger  of  the 
two. 

Father. — I  had  no  idea  that  everybody  was  so  rude.  I 
repeat,  that  my  more  years,  as  well  as  my  severer  education, 
had,  no  doubt,  helped  me  a  little  further  on  before  I  came  to 
know  you ;  but  it  was  only  in  virtue  of  the  doubt  in  me  that  I 
was  able  to  understand  and  appreciate  the  doubt  in  you. 

Mother.— But  then  you  had  at  least  begun  to  leave  it  behind 
before  I  knew  you,  and  so  had  grown  able  to  help  me.  And 
Mr.  Percivale  does  not  seem,  by  all  I  can  make  out,  a  bit  nearer 
believing  in  anything  than  poor  Wynnie  herself. 

Father. — At  least  he  doesn’t  fancy  he  believes  when  he  does 
not,  as  so  many  do,  and  consider  themselves  superior  persons 
in  consequence.  I  don’t  know  that  it  would  have  done  you 
any  great  harm,  Miss  Ethelwyn,  to  have  made  my  acquaintance 
when  I  was  in  the  worst  of  my  doubts  concerning  the  truth  of 
things.  Allow  me  to  tell  you  that  I  was  nearer  making  ship¬ 
wreck  of  my  faith  at  a  certain  period  than  I  ever  was  before  or 
have  been  since. 

Mother. — What  period  was  that  ? 

Father ; — Just  the  little  while  when  I  had  lost  all  hope  at 
ever  marrying  you — unbeliever  as  you  counted  yourself. 

Mother. — You  don’t  mean  to  say  you  would  have  ceased  to 
believe  in  God  if  he  hadn’t  given  you  your  own  way  ?  What 
is  faith  worth  if  it  depends  on  being  indulged  ? 

Father. — No,  my  dear.  I  firmly  believe  that  had  I  never 
married  you,  I  should  have  come  in  the  end  to  say  Thy  will  h 
done ,  and  to  believe  that  it  must  be  all  right  however  hard  to 


I  Try.  1 1 

bear.  But,  oh,  what  a  terrible  thing  it  would  have  been,  and 
what  a  frightful  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death  I  should  have 
had  to  go  through  first  ! 

I  know  my  mother  said  nothing  more  just  then,  but  let  my 
father  have  it  all  his  own  way  for  a  while. 

Father. — You  see  this  Percivale  is  an  honest  man.  I  don’t 
exactly  know  how  he  has  been  brought  up,  and  it  is  quite 
possible  he  may  have  had  such  evil  instruction  in  Christianity 
that  he  attributes  to  it  doctrines  which,  if  I  supposed  they 
actually  belonged  to  it,  would  make  me  reject  it  at  once  as 
ungodlike  and  bad.  I  have  found  this  the  case  sometimes. 
I  remember  once  being  astonished  to  hear  a  certain  noble- 
minded  lady  utter  some  indignant  words  against  what  I  con¬ 
sidered  a  very  weighty  doctrine  of  Christianity  ;  but  listening 
I  soon  found  that  what  she  supposed  the  doctrine  to  contain 
was  something  I  considered  vastly  unchristian.  This  may  be 
the  case  with  Percivale,  though  I  never  heard  him  say  a  word 
of  the  kind.  I  think  his  difficulty  comes  mainly  from  seeing 
so  much  suffering  in  the  world  that  he  cannot  imagine  the 
presence  and  rule  of  a  good  God ;  and  therefore  lies  with  reli¬ 
gion  rather  than  with  Christianity  as  yet.  I  am  all  but  cer¬ 
tain,  the  only  thing  that  will  ever  make  him  able  to  believe  in  a 
God  at  all  is  meditation  on  the  Christian  idea  of  God — I  mean 
the  idea  of  God  in  Christ  reconciling  the  world  to  himself. 
He  will  then  see  that  suffering  is  not  either  wrath  or  neglect, 
but  sore-hearted  love  and  tenderness.  But  we  must  give  him 
time,  wife  ;  as  God  has  borne  with  us,  we  must  believe  that 
he  bears  with  others,  and  so  learn  to  wait  in  hopeful  patience 
until  they  too  see  as  we  see. 

And  as  to  trusting  our  Wynnie  with  Percivale — he  seems  to 
be  as  good  as  she  is.  I  should  for  my  part  have  more  appre¬ 
hension  in  giving  her  to  one  who  would  be  called  a  thoroughly 
religious  man;  for  not  only  would  the  unfitness  be  greater,  but 
such  a  man  would  be  more  likely  to  confirm  her  in  doubt,  if  the 
phrase  be  permissible.  She  wants  what  some  would  call 
homoeopathic  treatment.  And  how  should  they  be  able  to  love 


12 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter . 

one  another  if  they  are  not  fit  to  be  married  to  each  other? 
The  fitness  seems  inherent  in  the  fact. 

Mother. — But  many  a  two  love  each  other  who  would  have 
loved  each  other  a  good  deal  more  if  they  hadn’t  been 
married. 

Father. — Then  it  was  most  desirable  they  should  find  out  that 
what  they  thought  a  grand  affection  was  not  worthy  of  the  name. 
But  I  don’t  think  there  is  much  fear  of  that  between  those  two. 

Alother. — I  don’t,  however,  see  how  that  man  is  to  do  her 
any  good,  when  you  have  tried  to  make  her  happy  for  so  long, 
and  all  in  vain. 

Father. — I  don’t  know  that  it  has  been  all  in  vain.  But  it 
is  quite  possible  she  does  not  understand  me.  She  fancies,  I 
dare  say,  that  I  believe  everything  without  any  trouble,  and 
therefore  cannot  enter  into  her  difficulties. 

Mother . — But  you  have  told  her  many  and  many  a  time 
that  you  do. 

Father. — Yes — and  I  hope  I  was  right ;  but  the  same  things 
look  so  different  to  different  people  that  the  same  words  won’t 
describe  them  to  both ;  and  it  may  seem  to  her  that  I  am 
talking  of  something  not  at  all  like  what  she  is  feeling  or 
thinking  of.  But  when  she  sees  the  troubled  face  of  Perci- 
vale,  she  knows  that  he  is  suffering ;  and  sympathy  being  thus 
established  between  them,  the  least  word  of  the  one  will  do  more 
to  help  the  other  than  oceans  of  argument.  Love  is  the  one 
great  instructor.  And  each  will  try  to  be  good  and  to  find  out 
for  the  sake  of  the  other. 

Mother. — I  don’t  like  her  going  from  home  for  the  help  that 
lay  at  her  very  door. 

Father. — You  know,  my  dear,  you  like  the  dean’s  preaching 
much  better  than  mine. 

Mother. — Now  that  is  unkind  of  you  ! 

Father. — And  why?  (my  father  went  on,  taking  no  heed  of 
my  mother’s  expostulation.)  Because  in  the  first  place  it  is 
better;  because  in  the  second  it  comes  in  a  newer  form  to  you, 
for  you  have  got  used  to  all  my  modes  ;  in  the  third  place  it  has 


\ 


13 


I  Try . 

more  force  from  the  fact  that  it  is  not  subject  to  the  doubt 
of  personal  preference  \  and  lastly,  because  he  has  a  large  com¬ 
prehensive  way  of  asserting  things,  which  pleases  you  better  than 
my  more  dubitant  mode  of  submitting  them  — all  very  sound  and 
good  reasons  ;  but  still,  why  be  so  vexed  with  Wynnie  ? 

My  mother  was  now  however  so  vexed  with  my  father 
for  saying  she  preferred  the  dean’s  preaching  to  his,  although 
I  doubt  very  much  whether  it  wasn’t  true,  that  she  actually 
walked  out  of  the  octagon  room  where  they  were,  and  left  him  to 
meditate  on  his  unkindness.  Vexed  with  herself  the  next 
moment  she  returned  as  if  nothing  had  happened. — I  am 
only  telling  what  my  mother  told  me,  for  to  her  grown 
daughters  she  is  blessedly  trusting. 

Mother. — Then  if  you  will  have  them  married,  husband, 
will  you  say  how  on  earth  you  exnect  them  to  live?  He  just 
makes  both  ends  meet  now  :  1  suppose  he  doesn’t  make  things 
out  worse  than  they  are,  and  that  is  his  own  account  of  the 
state  of  his  affairs. 

Father.  —  Ah,  yes  !  that  is — a  secondary  consideration,  my 
dear.  But  I  have  hardly  begun  to  think  about  it  yet.  There 
will  be  a  difficulty  there,  I  can  easily  imagine  ;  for  he  is  far  too 
independent  to  let  us  do  anything  for  him. 

Alother. — And  you  can’t  do  much,  if  they  would.  Really 
they  oughtn’t  to  marry  yet. 

Father. — Really  we  must  leave  it  to  themselves.  I  don’t  think 
you  and  1  need  trouble  our  heads  about  it.  When-  Percivale 
considers  himself  prepared  to  marry,  and  Wynnie  thinks  he  is 
right,  you  may  be  sure  they  see  their  way  to  a  livelihood  without 
running  in  hopeless  debt  to  their  tradespeople. 

Mother. — Oh  yes  !  I  daresay  ! — in  some  poky  little  lodging 
or  other ! 

Father. — For  my  part,  Ethelwyn,  I  think  it  better  to  build 
castles  in  the  air  than  huts  in  the  smoke.  But  seriously,  a 
little  poverty,  and  a  little  struggling  would  be  a  most  healthy 
and  healing  thing  for  Wynnie.  It  hasn’t  done  Percivale  much 
good  yet,  I  confess ;  for  he  is  far  too  indifferent  to  his  own 


The  Vicars  Daughter. 

comforts  to  mind  it;  but  it  will  be  quite  another  thing  when  he 
has  a  young  wife  and  perhaps  children  depending  upon  him. 
Then  his  poverty  may  begin  to  hurt  him  and  so  do  him  good. 

It  may  seem  odd  that  my  father  and  mother  should  now  be 
taking  such  opposite  sides  to  those  they  took  when  the  question 
of  our  engagement  was  first  started  —as  represented  by  my  father 
in  The  Seaboard  Parish.  But  it  will  seem  inconsistent  to  none 
of  the  family  ;  for  it  was  no  unusual  thing  for  them  to  take 
opposite  sides  to  those  they  had  previously  advocated  — each 
happening  at  the  time,  possibly  enlightened  by  the  foregone 
arguments  of  the  other,  to  be  impressed  with  the  correlate  truth 
• — as  my  father  calls  the  other  side  of  a  thing.  Besides,  engage¬ 
ment  and  marriage  are  two  different  things,  and  although  my 
mother  was  the  first  to  recognize  the  good  of  our  being  engaged, 
when  it  came  to  marriage  she  got  frightened,  I  think.  Anyhow 
I  have  her  authority  for  saying  that  something  like  this  passed 
between  her  and  my  father  on  the  subject. 

Discussion  between  them  differed  in  this  from  what  I  have 
generally  heard  between  married  people,  that  it  was  always 
founded  on  a  tacit  understanding  of  certain  unmentioned  prin¬ 
ciples  ;  and  no  doubt  sometimes,  if  a  stranger  had  been  present, 
he  would  have  been  bewildered  as  to  the  very  meaning  of  what 
they  were  saying.  But  we  girls  generally  understood  ;  and  I 
fancy  we  learned  more  from  their  differences  than  from  their 
agreements ;  for  of  course  it  was  the  differences  that  brought  out 
their  minds  most,  and  chiefly  led  us  to  think  that  we  might 
understand.  In  our  house  there  were  very  few  of  those  mysteries 
which  in  some  houses  seem  so  to  abound  ;  and  I  think  the 
openness  with  which  every  question,  for  whose  concealment 
there  was  no  special  reason,  was  discussed,  did  more  than 
even  any  direct  instruction  we  received  to  develope  what 
thinking  faculty  might  be  in  us.  Nor  was  there  much  reason 
to  dread  that  my  small  brothers  might  repeat  anything.  I 
remember  hearing  Harry  say  to  Charley  once — they  being  then 
eight  and  nine  years  old — “  That  is  mamma’s  opinion,  Charley 
— not  yours,  and  you  know  we  must  not  repeat  what  we  hear.” 


/  Try. 


IS 


They  soon  came  to  be  of  one  mind  about  Mr.  Percivale  and 
me — for  indeed  the  only  real  ground  for  doubt  that  had  ever 
existed  was — whether  I  was  good  enough  for  him  ;  and  for  my 
part  I  knew  then  and  know  now  that  I  was  and  am  dreadfully 
inferior  to  him.  And  notwithstanding  the  tremendous  work 
women  are  now  making  about  their  rights — I  so  wish  they  had 
them,  if  it  were  only  that  certain  who  make  me  feel  ashamed  of 
myself  because  I  too  am  a  woman,  might  perhaps  then  drop  out  of 
the  public  regard — notwithstanding  this,  I  venture  the  sweeping 
assertion  that  every  woman  is  not  as  good  as  every  man,  and 
that  it  is  not  necessary  to  the  dignity  of  a  wife  that  she  should 
assert  even  equality  with  her  husband.  Let  him  assert  her 
equality  or  superiority  if  he  will ;  but  were  it  a  fact,  it  would 
be  a  poor  one  for  her  to  assert,  seeing  her  glory  is  in  her  husband. 
To  seek  the  chief  place  is  especially  unfitting  the  marriage  feast. 
Whether  I  be  a  Christian  or  not,  and  I  have  good  reason  to 
doubt  it  every  day  of  my  life,  at  least  I  see  that  in  the  New 
Jerusalem  one  essential  of  citizenship  consists  in  knowing 
how  to  set  the  good  in  others  over  against  the  evil  in  our¬ 
selves. 

There  now — my  father  might  have  said  that !  and  no  doubt 
has  said  so  twenty  times  in  my  hearing.  It  is,  however,  only 
since  I  was  married  that  I  have  come  to  see  it  for  myself ;  and 
now  that  I  do  see  it,  I  have  a  right  to  say  it. 

So  we  were  married  at  last.  My  mother  believes  it  was  my 
father’s  good  advice  to  Percivale  concerning  the  sort  of  pictures 
he  painted,  that  brought  it  about.  For  certainly  soon  after  we 
were  engaged,  he  began  to  have  what  his  artist  friends  called  a 
run  of  luck :  he  sold  one  picture  after  another  in  a  very  extra¬ 
ordinary  and  hopeful  manner.  But  Percivale  says  it  was  his  love 
for  me — indeed  he  does — which  enabled  him  to  see  not  only 
much  deeper  into  things,  but  also  to  see  much  better  the  bloom 
that  hangs  about  everything,  and  so  to  paint  much  better 
pictures  than  before.  He  felt,  he  said,  that  he  had  a  hold  now 
where  before  he  had  only  a  sight.  However  this  may  be,  he 
had  got  on  so  well  for  a  while  that  he  wrote  at  last  that  if  I 


1 6  The  Vicars  Daughter . 

was  willing  to  share  his  poverty,  it  would  not,  he  thought, 
be  absolute  starvation,  and  I  was,  of  course,  perfectly  con¬ 
tent.  I  can’t  put  in  words  — indeed  I  dare  not,  for  fear  of 
writing  what  would  be  if  not  unladylike  at  least  unchari¬ 
table — my  contempt  for  those  women  who,  loving  a  man, 
hesitate  to  run  every  risk  with  him.  Of  course,  if  they 
cannot  trust  him,  it  is  a  different  thing.  I  am  not  going  to  say 
anything  about  that,  for  I  should  be  out  of  my  depth — not 
in  the  least  understanding  how  a  woman  can  'love  a  man  to 
whom  she  cannot  look  up.  I  believe  there  are  who  can  ; 
I  see  some  men  married  whom  I  don’t  believe  any  woman  ever 
did  or  ever  could  respect ;  all  I  say  is,  I  don’t  understand  it. 

My  father  and  mother  made  no  objection,  and  were  evidently 
at  last  quite  agreed  that  it  would  be  the  best  thing  for  both 
of  us — and  so,  I  say,  we  were  married. 

I  ought  just  to  mention  that,  before  the  day  arrived,  my 
mother  went  up  to  London  at  Percivale’s  request,  to  help  him 
in  getting  together  the  few  things  absolutely  needful  for  the 
barest  commencement  of  housekeeping.  For  the  rest,  it  had 
been  arranged  that  we  should  furnish  by  degrees,  buying  as  we 
saw  what  we  liked,  and  could  afford  it.  The  greater  part  of 
modern  fashions  in  furniture,  having  both  been  accustomed  to 
the  stateliness  of  a  more  artistic  period,  we  detested  for  their 
ugliness,  and  chiefly  therefore  we  desired  to  look  about  us  at 
our  leisure. 

My  mother  came  back  more  satisfied  with  the  little  house  he 
had  taken  than  I  had  expected.  It  was  not  so  easy  to  get  one 
to  suit  us,  for  of  course  he  required  a  large  room  to  paint  in, 
with  a  good  north  light.  He  had,  however,  succeeded  better 
than  he  had  hoped. 

“  You  will  find  things  very  different  from  what  you  have  been 
used  to,  Wynnie,”  said  my  mother. 

“  Of  course,  mamma  ;  I  know  that,”  I  answered.  “  I  hope 
I  am  prepared  to  meet  it.  If  I  don’t  like  it,  I  shall  have  no 
one  to  blame  but  myself;  and  I  don’t  see  what  right  people 
have  to  expect  what  they  have  been  used  to.” 


I  Try.  1 7 

“  There  is  just  this  advantage,”  said  my  father,  “in  having 
been  used  to  nice  things,  that  it  ought  to  be  easier  to  keep  from 
sinking  into  the  sordid,  however  straitened  the  new  circum¬ 
stances  may  be,  compared  with  the  old.” 

On  the  evening  before  the  wedding,  my  father  took  me  into 
the  octagon  room,  and  there  knelt  down  with  me  and  my  mother, 
and  prayed  for  me  in  such  a  wonderful  way  that  I  was  perfectly 
astonished  and  overcome.  I  had  never  known  him  do  any¬ 
thing  of  the  kind  before.  He  was  not  favourable  to  extempore 
prayer  in  public,  or  even  in  the  family,  and  indeed  had  often 
seemed  willing  to  omit  prayers  for  what  I  could  not  always 
count  sufficient  reason  :  he  had  a  horror  at  their  getting  to  be  a 
matter  of  course  and  a  form  ;  for  then,  he  said,  they  ceased 
to  be  worship  at  all,  and  were  a  mere  pagan  rite,  better  far 
left  alone.  I  remember  also  he  said,  that  those,  however  good 
they  might  be,  who  urged  attention  to  the  forms  of  religion, 
such  as  going  to  church  and  saying  prayers,  were,  however 
innocently,  just  the  prophets  of  Pharisaism  ;  that  what  men  had 
to  be  stirred  up  to  was  to  lay  hold  upon  God,  and  then  they 
would  not  fail  to  find  out  what  religious  forms  they  ought  to 
cherish.  “The  spirit  first  and  then  the  flesh,”  he  would  say. 
To  put  the  latter  before  the  former  was  a  falsehood,  and 
therefore  a  frightful  danger,  being  at  the  root  of  all  declensions 
in  the  church,  and  making  ever  recurring  earthquakes  and 
persecutions  and  repentances  and  reformations  needful.  I  find 
what  my  father  used  to  say  coming  back  so  often  now  that  I 
hear  so  little  of  it— especially  as  he  talks  much  less,  accusing 
himself  of  having  always  talked  too  much — and  I  understand 
it  so  much  better  now,  that  I  shall  be  always  in  danger  of 
interrupting  my  narrative  to  say  something  that  he  said.  But 
when  I  commence  the  next  chapter,  I  shall  get  on  faster,  I  hope. 
My  story  is  like  a  vessel  I  saw  once  being  launched  :  it  would 
stick  on  the  stocks,  instead  of  sliding  away  into  the  expectant 
waters. 


c 


The  Vicars  Daughter . 


i3 


CHAPTER  III. 

MY  WEDDING. 

•S. 

I  confess  the  first  thing  I  did  when  I  knew  myself  the  next 
morning  was  to  have  a  good  cry.  To  leave  the  place  where  I 
had  been  born  was  like  forsaking  the  laws  and  order  of  the 
nature  I  knew — for  some  other — nature  it  might  be,  but  not 
known  to  me  as  such.  How,  for  instance,  could  one  who  has 
been  used  to  our  bright  white  sun,  and  our  pale  modest  moon, 
with  our  soft  twilights  and  far,  mysterious  skies  of  night,  be 
willing  to  fall  in  with  the  order  of  things  in  a  planet  such  as  I 
have  read  of  somewhere,  with  three  or  four  suns,  one  red  and 
another  green  and  another  yellow?  Only  perhaps  Tve  taken 
it  all  up  wrong — and  I  do  like  looking  at  a  landscape  for  a 
minute  or  so  through  a  coloured  glass  ;  and  if  it  be  so,  of  course 
it  all  blends,  and  all  we  want  is  harmony.  What  I  mean  is, 
that  I  found  it  a  great  wrench  to  leave  the  dear  old  place,  and 
of  course  loved  it  more  than  I  had  ever  loved  it.  But  I  would 
get  all  my  crying  about  that  over  beforehand.  It  would  be 
bad  enough  afterwards  to  have  to  part  with  my  father  and 
mother  and  Connie  and  the  rest  of  them.  Only  it  wasn’t  like 
leaving  them.  You  can’t  leave  hearts  as  you  do  rooms.  You 
can’t  leave  thoughts  as  you  do  books.  Those  you  love  only 
come  nearer  to  you  when  you  go  away  from  them.  The  same 
rules  don’t  hold  with  thinks  and  things,  as  my  eldest  boy 
distinguished  them  the  other  day. 

But  somehow  I  couldn’t  get  up  and  dress.  I  seemed  to 
have  got  very  fond  of  my  own  bed,  and  the  queer  old  crows, 
as  I  had  called  them  from  babyhood,  on  the  chintz  curtains, 
and  the  Chinese  paper  on  the  walls  with  the  strangest  birds 
and  creeping  things  on  it.  It  was  a  lovely  spring  morning,  and 
the  sun  was  shining  gloriously.  I  knew  that  the  rain  of  the 
last  night  must  be  glittering  on  the  grass  and  the  young  leaves, 
and  I  heard  the  birds  singing  as  if  they  knew  far  more  than 


19 


My  Wedding . 

% 

mere  human  beings,  and  believed  a  great  deal  more  than  they 
knew.  Nobody  will  persuade  me  that  the  birds  don’t  mean  it ; 
that  they  sing  from  anything  else  than  gladness  of  heart.  And 
if  they  don’t  think  about  cats  and  guns,  why  should  they  ? 
Even  when  they  fall  on  the  ground,  it  is  not  without  our 
Father.  How  horridly  dull  and  stupid  it  seems  to  say  that 
“  without  your  Father  ”  means  without  his  knowing  it.  The 
Father’s  mere  knowledge  of  a  thing — if  that  could  be,  which 
my  father  says  can’t — is  not  the  Father.  The  father’s  tender¬ 
ness  and  care  and  love  of  it  all  the  time — that  is  the  not  falling 
without  him.  When  the  cat  kills  the  bird — as  I  have  seen 
happen  so  often  in  our  poor  little  London  garden — God  yet 
saves  his  bird  from  his  cat.  There  is  nothing  so  bad  as  it 
looks  to  our  half-sight,  our  blinding  perceptions.  My  father 
used  to  say  we  are  all  walking  in  a  spiritual  twilight,  and  are 
all  more  or  less  affected  with  twilight  blindness,  as  some  people 
are  physically.  Percivale,  for  one,  who  is  as  brave  as  any  wife 
could  wish,  is  far  more  timid  than  I  am  in  crossing  a  London 
street  in  the  twilight;  he  can’t  see  what  is  coming,  and  fancies 
he  sees  what  is  not  coming.  But  then  he  has  faith  in  me,  and 
never  starts  when  I  am  leading  him. 

Well,  the  birds  were  singing,  and  Dora  and  the  boys  were 
making  a  great  chatter,  like  a  whole  colony  of  sparrows,  under 
my  window.  Still  I  felt  as  if  I  had  twenty  questions  to  settle 
before  I  could  get  up  comfortably,  and  so  lay  on  and  on  till 
the  breakfast  bell  rang;  and  I  was  not  more  than  half  dressed 
when  my  mother  came  to  see  why  I  was  late,  for  I  had  not 
been  late  for  ever  so  long  before. 

She  comforted  me  as  nobody  but  a  mother  can  comfort. 
Oh  !  I  do  hope  I  shall  be  to  my  children  what  my  mother  has 
been  to  me.  It  would  be  such  a  blessed  thing  to  be  a  well 
of  water  whence  they  may  be  sure  of  drawing  comfort.  And 
all  she  said  to  me  has  come  true. 

Of  course,  my  father  gave  me  away,  and  Mr.  Weir  married 
us. 

It  had  been  before  agreed  that  we  should  have  no  wedding 

C  2 


20 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter . 

o  * 

journey.  We  all  liked  the  old-fashioned  plan  of  the  bride 
going  straight  from  her  father’s  house  to  her  husband’s.  The 
other  way  seemed  a  poor  invention,  just  for  the  sake  of  some¬ 
thing  different.  So  after  the  wedding,  we  spent  the  time  as 
we  should  have  done  any  other  day,  wandering  about  in  groups, 
or  sitting  and  reading,  only  that  we  were  all  more  smartly 
dressed — until  it  was  time  for  an  early  dinner,  after  which  we 
drove  to  the  station,  accompanied  only  by  my  father  and 
mother. 

Aftqr  they  left  us,  or  rather  we  left  them,  my  husband  did 
not  speak  to  me  for  nearly  an  hour.  I  knew  why,  and  was  very 
grateful.  He  would  not  show  his  new  face  in  the  midst  of  my 
old  loves  and  their  sorrows,  but  would  give  me  time  to  re¬ 
arrange  the  grouping  so  as  myself  to  bring  him  in  when  all 
was  ready  for  him.  I  know  that  was  what  he  was  thinking,  or 
feeling  rather  ;  and  I  understood  him  perfectly.  At  last,  when 
I  had  got  things  a  little  tidier  inside  me,  and  had  persuaded 
my  eyes  to  stop,  I  held  out  my  hand  to  him,  and  then — I  knew 
that  I  was  his  wife. 

This  is  all  I  have  to  tell,  though  I  have  plenty  more  to 
keep,  till  we  got  to  London.  There,  instead  of  my  father’s 
nice  carriage,  we  got  into  a  jolting,  lumbering,  horrid  cab,  with 
my  five  boxes  and  Percivale’s  little  portmanteau  on  the  top  of 
it,  and  drove  away  to  Camden  Town.  It  was  to  a  part  of  it 
near  the  Regent’s  Park,  and  so  our  letters  were  always,  accord¬ 
ing  to  the  divisions  of  the  Post  Office,  addressed  to  Regent’s 
Park,  but  for  all  practical  intents  we  were  in  Camden  Town. 
It  was  indeed  a  change  from  a  fine  old  house  in  the  country, 
but  the  street  wasn’t  much  uglier  than  Belgrave  Square,  or  any 
other  of  those  heaps  of  uglinesses,  called  squares,  in  the  West 
End  ;  and  after  what  I  had  been  told  to  expect,  I  was  surprised 
at  the  prettiness  of  the  little  house  when  I  stepped  out  cf  the 
cab  and  looked  about  me.  It  was  stuck  on  like  a  swallow’s 
nest  to  the  end  of  a  great  row  of  commonplace  houses,  nearly 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  in  length,  but  itself  was  not  the  work  of 
one  of  those  wretched  builders  who  care  no  more  for  beauty 


21 


My  Wedding. 

in  what  they  build  than  a  scavenger  in  the  heap  of  mud  he 
scrapes  from  the  street.  It  had  been  built  by  a  painter  for 
himself — in  the  Tudor  style  ;  and  though  Percivale  says  the 
idea  is  not  very  well  carried  out,  I  like  it  much. 

I  found  it  a  little  dreary  when  I  entered  though — from  its 
emptiness.  The  only  sitting-room  at  all  prepared  had  just  a 
table  and  two  or  three  old-fashioned  chairs  in  it — not  even  a 
carpet  on  the  floor.  The  bedroom  and  dressing-room  were 
also  as  scantily  furnished  as  they  well  could  be. 

“  Don’t  be  dismayed,  my  darling, ”  said  my  husband.  “  Look 
here” — showirg  me  a  bunch  of  notes — “we  shall  go  out  to¬ 
morrow  and  buy  all  we  want — as  far  as  this  will  go,  and  then 
wait  for  the  rest.  It  will  be  such  a  pleasure  to  buy  the  things 
with  you,  and  see  them  come  home,  and  have  you  appoint 
their  places.  You  and  Sarah  will  make  the  carpets,  won’t 
you? — and  I  will  put  them  down,  and  we  shall  be  like  birds 
building  their  nest.” 

“We  have  only  to  line  it ;  the  nest  is  built  already.” 

“Well,  neither  do  the  birds  build  the  tree. — I  wonder  if 
they  ever  sit  in  their  old  summer  nests  in  the  winter  nights.” 

“  I  am  afraid  not,”  I  answered  ;  “  but  I’m  ashamed  to  say  I 
can’t  tell.” 

“  It  is  the  only  pretty  house  I  know  in  all  London,”  he  wrent 
on,  “  with  a  studio  at  the  back  of  it.  I  have  had  my  eye  on 
it  for  a  long  time,  but  there  seemed  no  sign  of  a  migratory 
disposition  in  the  bird  who  had  occupied  it  for  three  years 
past.  All  at  once  he  spread  his  wings  and  flew.  I  count 
myself  very  fortunate.” 

“So  do  I.  But  now  you  must  let  me  see  your  study,”  I 
said.  “  I  hope  I  may  sit  in  it  when  you’ve  got  nobody 
there.” 

“  As  much  as  ever  you  like,  my  love,”  he  answered.  “  Only 
I  don’t  want  to  make  all  my  women  like  you,  as  I’ve  been 
doing  for  the  last  two  years.  You  must  get  me  out  of  that 
somehow.” 

“  Easily.  I  shall  be  so  cross  and  disagreeable  that  you  will 


22  The  Vicars  Daughter. 

get  tired  of  me,  and  find  no  more  difficulty  in  keeping  me  out 
of  your  pictures.” 

But  he  got  me  out  of  his  pictures  without  that ;  for  when 
he  had  me  always  before  him  he  didn’t  want  to  be  always 
producing  me.  * 

He  led  me  into  the  little  hall — made  lovely  by  a  cast  of  an 
unfinished  Madonna  of  Michael  Angelo’s  let  into  the  wall— 
and  then  to  the  back  of  it,  where  he  opened  a  small  cloth- 
covered  door,  when  there  yawned  before  me,  below  me,  and 
above  me,  a  great  wide  lofty  room.  Down  into  it  led  an  almost 
perpendicular  stair. 

“  So  you  keep  a  little  private  precipice  here,”  I  said. 

“  No,  my  dear,”  he  returned  ;  “you  mistake.  It  is  a  Jacob’s 
ladder — or  will  be  in  one  moment  more.” 

He  gave  me  his  hand  and  led  me  down. 

“  This  is  quite  a  banqueting-hall,  Percivale  !  ”  I  cried,  looking 
round  me. 

“  It  shall  be,  the  first  time  I  get  a  thousand  pounds  for  a 
picture,”  he  returned. 

“  How  grand  you  talk  !  ”  I  said,  looking  up  at  him  with 
some  wonder ;  for  big  words  rarely  came  out  of  his  mouth. 

“  Well,”  he  answered  merrily,  “  I  had  two  hundred  and 
seventy-five  for  the  last.” 

“  That’s  a  long  way  off  a  thousand,”  I  returned,  with  a  silly 
sigh. 

“Quite  right ;  and,  therefore,  this  study  is  a  long  way  off  a 
banqueting-hall.” 

There  was  literally  nothing  inside  the  seventeen  feet  cube 
except  one  chair,  one  easel,  a  horrible  thing  like  a  huge  doll, 
with  no  end  of  joints,  called  a  lay  figure,  but  Percivale  called 
it  his  bishop  ;  a  number  of  pictures  leaning  their  faces  against 
the  walls  in  attitudes  of  grief  that  their  beauty  was  despised 
and  no  man  would  buy  them  ;  a  few  casts  of  legs  and  arms 
and  faces,  half  a  dozen  murderous-looking  weapons,  and  a 

couple  of  yards  square  of  the  most  exquisite  tapestry  I  ever 
saw. 


My  Wedding .  2  3 

“  Do  you  like  being  read  to  when  you  are  at  work  ?  ”  I  asked 
him. 

“  Sometimes — at  certain  kinds  of  work,  blit  not  by  any 
means  always/’  he  answered. — “  Will  you  shut  your  eyes  for 
one  minute,”  he  went  on,  “and,  whatever  I  do,  not  open  them 
till  I  tell  you  ?  ” 

“You  mustn’t  hurt  me,  then,  or  I  may  open  them  without 
being  able  to  help  it,  you  know,”  I  said,  closing  my  eyes  tight. 

“  Hurt  you  !  ”  he  repeated,  with  a  tone  I  would  not  put  on 
the  paper  if  I  could  ;  and  the  same  moment  I  found  myself  in 
his  arms,  carried  like  a  baby,  for  Percivale  is  one  of  the  strongest 
of  men. 

It  was  only  for  a  few  yards,  however.  He  laid  me  down 
somewhere,  and  told  me  to  open  my  eyes. 

I  could  scarcely  believe  them  when  I  did.  I  was  lying  on 
a  couch  in  a  room — small,  indeed,  but  beyond  exception  the 
loveliest  I  had  ever  seen.  At  first  I  was  only  aware  of  an 
exquisite  harmony  of  colour,  and  could  not  have  told  of  what 
it  was  composed.  The  place  was  lighted  by  a  soft  lamp  that 
hung  in  the  middle,  and  when  my  eyes  went  up  to  see  where 
it  was  fastened,  I  found  the  ceiling  marvellous  in  deep  blue, 
with  a  suspicion  of  green,  just  like  some  of  the  shades  of  a 
peacock’s  feathers,  with  a  multitude  of  gold  ard  red  stars  upon 
it.  What  the  walls  were  I  could  not  for  some  time  tell,  they 
were  so  covered  with  pictures  and  sketches.  Against  one  was 
a  lovely  little  set  of  bookshelves  filled  with  books  ;  and  on  a 
little  carved  table  stood  a  vase  of  white  hothouse  flowers,  with 
one  red  camellia.  One  picture  had  a  curtain  of  green  silk 
before  it,  and  by  its  side  hung  the  wounded  knight  whom  his 
friends  were  carrying  home  to  die. 

“  Oh,  my  Percivale  !  ”  I  cried,  and  could  say  no  more. 

“  Do  you  like  it  ?  ”  he  asked  quietly,  but  with  shining  eyes. 

“Like  it?”  I  repeated.  “Shall  I  like  Paradise  when  I  get 
there?  But  what  a  lot  of  money  it  must  have  cost  you  1  ” 

“  Not  much,”  he  answered  ;  “  not  more  than  thirty  pounds 
or  so.  Every  spot  of  paint  there  is  from  my  own  brush.” 


24 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter . 

“  Oh  Percivale  !  ” 

I  must  make  a  conversation  of  it  to  tell  it  at  all ;  but  what 
I  really  did  say  I  know  no  more  than  the  man  in  the  moon. 

“  The  carpet  was  the  only  expensive  thing.  That  must  be 
as  thick  as  I  could  get  it,  for  the  floor  is  of  stone,  and  must 
not  come  near  your  pretty  feet.  Guess  what  the  place  was 
before.” 

“I  should  say  — the  flower  of  a  prickly  pear  cactus,  full  of 
sunlight  from  behind,  which  a  fairy  took  the  fancy  to  swell  into 
a  room.” 

“  It  was  a  shed,  in  which  the  sculptor  who  occupied  the 
place  before  me  used  to  keep  his  wet  clay  and  blocks  of 
marble.” 

“  Seeing  is  hardly  believing,”  I  said.  “  Is  it  to  be  my  room  ? 
I  know  you  mean  it  for  my  own  room,  where  I  can  ask  you  to 
come  when  I  please,  and  where  I  can  hide  when  any  one 
comes  you  don’t  want  me  to  see.” 

“That  is  just  what  I  meant  it  for,  my  Ethelwyn  — and  to  let 
you  know  what  I  would  do  for  you  if  I  could.” 

“  I  hate  the  place,  Percivale,”  I  said.  “  What  right  has  it 
to  come  poking  in  between  you  and  me,  telling  me  what  I 
know  and  have  known  for — well,  I  won’t  say  how  long — far 
better  than  even  you  can  tell  me  ?  ” 

He  looked  a  little  troubled. 

“  Ah,  my  dear,”  I  said,  “  let  my  foolish  words  breathe  and 
die.” 

1  wonder  sometimes  to  think  how  seldom  I  am  in  that  room 
now.  But  there  it  is,  and  somehow  I  seem  to  know  it  all  the 
time  I  am  busy  elsewhere. 

He  made  me  shut  my  eyes  again,  and  carried  me  into  the 
study. 

“Now,”  he  said,  “  find  your  way  to  your  own  room.” 

I  looked  about  me,  but  could  see  no  sign  of  a  door.  He 
took  up  a  tall  stretcher  with  a  canvas  on  it,  and  revealed  the 
door,  at  the  same  time  showing  a  likeness  of  myself — at  the 
top  ot  the  Jacob’s  ladder,  as  he  called  it,  with  one  foot  on  the 


25 


My  Weddi  ng. 

first  step,  and  the  other  half-way  to  the  second.  The  light 
came  from  the  window  on  my  left,  which  he  had  turned  into 
a  western  window,  in  order  to  get  certain  effects  from  a  sup* 
posed  sunset.  I  was  represented  in  a  white  dress,  tinged  with 
the  rose  of  the  west ;  and  he  had  managed,  attributing  the 
phenomenon  to  the  inequalities  of  the  glass  in  the  window,  to 
suggest  one  rosy  wing  behind  me,  with  just  the  shoulder-root 
of  another  visible. 

“  There  !  ”  he  said.  “  It  is  not  finished  yet,  but  that  is  how 
I  saw  you  one  evening  as  I  was  sitting  here  all  alone  in  the 
twilight.” 

“  But  you  didn’t  really  see  me  like  that !  ”  I  said. 

“  I  hardly  know,”  he  answered.  “  I  had  been  forgetting  every¬ 
thing  else  in  dreaming  about  you,  and — how  it  was  I  cannot 
tell,  but  either  in  the  body  or  out  of  the  body  there  I  saw  you, 
standing  just  so  at  the  top  of  the  stair— smiling  to  me  as  much 
as  to  say, — ‘  Have  patience.  My  foot  is  on  the  first  step. 
I’m  coming.’  I  turned  at  once  to  my  easel,  and  before  the 
twilight  was  gone  had  sketched  the  vision.  To-morrow  you 
must  sit  to  me  for  an  hour  or  so — for  I  will  do  nothing  else 
till  I  have  finished  it  and  sent  it  off  to  your  father  and  mother.” 

I  may  just  add  that  I  hear  it  is  considered  a  very  fine  paint¬ 
ing.  It  hangs  in  the  great  dining-room  at  home.  I  wish  I 
were  as  good  as  he  has  made  it  look. 

The  next  morning,  after  I  had  given  him  the  sitting  he 
wanted,  we  set  out  on  our  furniture-hunt ;  when,  having  keen 
enough  eyes,  I  caught  sight  of  this  and  of  that  and  of  twenty 
different  things  in  the  brokers’  shops.  We  did  not  agree  about 
the  merits  of  everything  by  which  one  or  the  other  was  at¬ 
tracted,  but  an  objection  by  the  one  always  turned  the  other — 
a  little  at  least ;  and  we  bought  nothing  we  were  not  agreed 
about.  Yet  that  evening  the  hall  was  piled  with  things  sent 
home  to  line  our  nest.  Percivale,  as  I  have  said,  had  saved 
up  some  money  for  the  purpose,  and  I  had  a  hundred  pounds 
my  father  had  given  me  before  we  started,  which,  never  having 
had  more  than  ten  of  my  own  at  a  time,  I  was  eager  enough 


26 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter. 

to  spend.  So  we  found  plenty  to  do  for  the  fortnight  during 
which  time  my  mother  had  promised  to  say  nothing  to  her 
friends  in  London  of  our  arrival.  Percivale  also  keeping  out 
of  the  way  of  his  friends,  everybody  thought  we  were  on  the 
continent — or  somewhere  else,  and  left  us  to  ourselves.  And 
as  he  had  sent  in  his  pictures  to  the  Academy,  he  was  able  to 
take  a  rest,  which  rest  consisted  in  working  hard  at  all  sorts 
of  upholstery,  not  to  mention  painters’  and  carpenters’ work; 
so  that  we  soon  got  the  little  house  made  into  a  very  warm 
and  very  pretty  nest.  I  may  mention  that  Percivale  was  par¬ 
ticularly  pleased  with  a  cabinet  I  bought  for  him  on  the  sly — - 
to  stand  in  his  study,  and  hold  his  paints  and  brushes  and 
sketches,  for  there  were  all  sorts  of  drawers  in  it,  and  some 
that  it  took  us  a  good  deal  of  trouble  to  find  out,  though  he 
was  clever  enough  to  suspect  them  from  the  first,  when  I  hadn’t 
a  thought  of  such  a  thing ;  and  I  have  often  fancied  since  that 
that  cabinet  was  just  like  himself,  for  I  have  been  going  on 
finding  out  things  in  him  that  I  had  no  idea  were  there  when 
I  married  him.  I  had  no  idea  that  he  was  a  poet,  for  instance. 
I  wonder  to  this  day  why  he  never  showed  me  any  of  his 
verses  before  we  were  married.  He  writes  better  poetry  than 
my  father — at  least  my  father  says  so.  Indeed  I  soon  came  to 
feel  very  ignorant  and  stupid  beside  him  ;  he  could  tell  me  so 
many  things,  and  especially  in  art — for  he  had  thought  about 
all  kinds  of  it — making  me  understand  that  there  is  no  end  to 
it,  any  more  than  to  the  nature  which  sets  it  going,  and  that 
the  more  we  see  into  nature,  and  try  to  represent  it,  the  more 
ignorant  and  helpless  we  find  ourselves ; — until  at  length  I 
began  to  wonder  whether  God  might  not  have  made  the  world 
so  rich  and  full  just  to  teach  his  children  humility.  For  a 
while  I  felt  quite  stunned.  He  very  much  wanted  me  to 
draw ;  but  I  thought  it  was  no  use  trying,  and  indeed  had  no 
heart  for  it.  I  spoke  to  my  father  about  it.  Fie  said  it  was 
indeed  of  no  use  if  my  object  was  to  be  able  to  think  much  of 
myself,  for  no  one  could  ever  succeed  in  that  in  the  long  run ; 
but  if  my  object  was  to  reap  the  delight  of  the  truth,  it  was 


s 


Judy's  Visit .  27 

worth  while  to  spend  hours  and  hours  on  trying  to  draw  a  single 
tree-leaf,  or  paint  the  wing  of  a  moth. 


CHAPTER  IV. 
judy’s  visit. 

The  very  first  morning  after  the  expiry  of  the  fortnight,  when 
I  was  in  the  kitchen  with  Sarah,  giving  her  instructions  about 
a  certain  dish  as  if  I  had  made  it  twenty  times,  whereas  I  had 
only  just  learned  how  from  a  shilling  cookery-book,  there  came 
a  double  knock  at  the  door.  I  guessed  who  it  must  be. 

“  Run,  Sarah,”  I  said,  “  and  show  Mrs.  Morley  into  the 
drawing-room.” 

When  I  entered,  there  she  was — Mrs.  Morley,  alias,  Cousin 
Judy. 

“  Well,  little  cozzie  !  ”  she  cried,  as  she  kissed  me  three  or 
four  times,  “  I’m  glad  to  see  you  gone  the  way  of  womankind 
■ — wooed  and  married  and  a’ — Fate,  child  1  inscrutable  fate  S  ” 
and  she  kissed  me  again. 

She  always  calls  me  little  coz,  though  I  am  a  head  taller  than 
herself.  She  is  as  good  as  ever,  quite  as  brusque,  and  at  the 
first  word  apparently  more  overbearing.  But  she  is  as  ready 
to  listen  to  reason  as  ever  was  woman  of  my  acquaintance,  and 
I  think  the  form  of  her  speech  is  but  a  somewhat  distorted 
reflex  of  her  perfect  honesty.  After  a  little  trifling  talk,  which 
is  sure  to  come  first  when  people  are  more  than  ordinarily  glad 
to  meet,  I  asked  after  her  children.  I  forget  how  many  there 
were  of  them,  but  they  were  then  pretty  far  into  the  plural 
number. 

“  Growing  like  ill  weeds,”  she  said — “as  anxious  as  ever  their 
grandfathers  and  mothers  were  to  get  their  heads  up  and  do 
mischief.  For  my  part  I  wish  I  was  Jove — to  start  them  full- 


28 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter. 

grown  at  once.  Or  why  shouldn’t  they  be  made  like  Eve  out 
of  their  father’s  ribs  ?  It  would  be  a  great  comfort  to  their 
mother.” 

My  father  had  always  been  much  pleased  with  the  results  of 
Judy’s  training,  as  contrasted  with  those  of  his  sister’s.  The 
little  ones  of  my  Aunt  Martha’s  family  were  always  wanting  some¬ 
thing,  and  always  looking  careworn  like  their  mother  he  said, 
while  she  was  always  reading  them  lectures  on  their  duty,  and 
never  making  them  mind  what  she  said.  She  would  represent 
the  self-same  thing  to  them  over  and  over,  until  not  merely  all 
force,  but  all  sense  as  well  seemed  to  have  forsaken  it.  Her 
notion  of  duty  was  to  tell  them  yet  again  the  duty  which  they 
had  been  told  at  least  a  thousand  times  already,  without  the 
slightest  result.  They  were  dull  children,  wearisome  and  unin¬ 
teresting.  On  the  other  hand  the  little  Morleys  were  full  of 
life  and  eagerness.  The  fault  in  them  was  that  they  wouldn’t 
take  petting,  and  what’s  the  good  of  a  child  that  won’t  be 
petted  ?  They  lacked  that  something  which  makes  a  woman 
feel  motherly. 

“  When  did  you  arrive,  cozzie  ?  ”  she  asked. 

“  A  fortnight  ago  yesterday.” 

“  Ah,  you  sly  thing  !  What  have  you  been  doing  with  your¬ 
self  all  the  time?” 

“  Furnishing.” 

“What  !  you  came  into  an  empty- house ?” 

“  Not  quite  that,  but  nearly.” 

“It  is  very  odd  I  should  never  have  seen  your  husband.  We 
have  crossed  each  other  twenty  times.” 

“  Not  so  very  odd,  seeing  he  has  been  my  husband  only  a 
fortnight.” 

“  What  is  he  like  ?  ” 

“  Like  nothing  but  himself.” 

“  Is  he  tall  ?” 

“  Yes.” 

“  Is  he  stout  ?  ” 

“  No.” 


Judy s  Visit . 


20 


“  An  Adonis?” 

“  No.” 

“  A  Hercules  ?  ” 

“  No.” 

“  Very  clever,  I  believe.” 

“  Not  at  all.” 

For  my  father  had  taught  me  to  look  down  on  that  word. 

“  Why  did  you  marry  him  then  ?  ” 

“I  didn’t.  Fie  married  me.” 

“  What  did  you  marry  him  for  then  ?  ” 

“  For  love.” 

“What  did  you  love  him  for?” 

“  Because  he  was  a  philosopher.” 

“  That’s  the  oddest  reason  I  ever  heard  for  marrying  a 
man.” 

“  I  said  for  loving  him,  Judy.” 

Her  bright  eyes  were  twinkling  with  fun. 

“  Come,  cozzie,”  she  said,  “  give  me  a  proper  reason  for 
falling  in  love  with  this  husband  of  yours.” 

“Well,  I’ll  tell  you,  then,”  I  said;  “only  you  mustn’t  tell 
any  other  body :  he’s  got  such  a  big  shaggy  head,  just  like  a 
lion’s.” 

“  And  such  a  huge  big  foot— just  like  a  bear’s  ?  ” 

“Yes,  and  such  great  huge  hands  !  Why  the  two  of  them 
go  quite  round  my  waist !  And  such  big  eyes,  that  they  look 
right  through  me ;  and  such  a  big  heart,  that  if  he  saw 
me  doing  anything  wrong,  he  would  kill  me,  and  bury  me 
in  it.” 

“  Well,  I  must  say,  it  is  the  most  extraordinary  description 
of  a  husband  I  ever  heard.  It  sounds  to  me  very  like  an 
ogre.” 

“  Yes,  I  admit,  the  description  is  rather  ogrish.  But  then 
he’s  poor,  and  that  makes  up  for  a  good  deal.” 

I  was  in  the  humour  for  talking  nonsense,  and  of  course 
expected  of  all  people  that  Judy  would  understand  my  fun. 

“  How  does  that  make  up  for  anything?” 


30 


The  Vicar’s  Daughter. 

“  Because  if  he  is  a  poor  man,  he  isn’t  a  rich  man,  and 
therefore  not  so  likely  to  be  stupid.” 

“  How  do  you  make  that  out  ?  ” 

“  Because,  first  of  all,  the  rich  man  doesn’t  know  what  to  do 
with  his  money,  whereas  my  ogre  knows  what  to  do  without  it. 
Then  the  rich  man  wonders  in  the  morning  which  waistcoat 
he  shall  put  on,  while  my  ogre  has  but  one,  besides  his  Sunday 
one.  Then  supposing  the  rich  man  has  slept  well,  and  has  done 
a  fair  stroke  or  two  of  business,  he  wants  nothing  but  a  well- 
dressed  wife,  a  well-dressed  dinner,  a  few  glasses  of  his 
favourite  wine,  and  the  evening  paper,  well  diluted  with  a  sleep 
in  his  easy-chair,  to  be  perfectly  satisfied  that  this  world  is  the 
best*  of  all  possible  worlds.  Now  my  ogre,  on  the  other 
hand — ” 

I  was  going  on  to  point  out  how  frightfully  different  from  all 
this  my  ogre  was — how  he  would  devour  a  half- cooked  chop, 
and  drink  a  pint  of  ale  from  the  public-house,  &c.,  &c.,  when 
she  interrupted  me,  saying  with  an  odd  expression  of  voice, — 

“  You  are  satirical,  cozzie.  He’s  not  the  worst  sort  of  man 
you’ve  just  described.  A  woman  might  be  very  happy  with 
him.  If  it  weren’t  such  early  days,  I  should  doubt  if  you  were 
as  comfortable  as  you  would  have  people  think ;  for  how  else 
should  you  be  so  ill-natured  ?  ” 

It  flashed  upon  me  that  without  the  least  intention  I  had 
been  giving  a  very  fair  portrait  of  Mr.  Morley.  I  felt  my  face 
grow  as  red  as  fire. 

“  I  had  no  intention  of  being  satirical,  Judy,”  I  replied.  “  I 
was  only  describing  a  man  the  very  opposite  of  my  husband.” 

“You  don’t  know  mine  yet,”  she  said.  “You  may 
think — ” 

She  actually  broke  down  and  cried.  I  had  never  in  my  life 
seen  her  cry,  and  I  was  miserable  at  what  I  had  done.  Here 
was  a  nice  beginning  of  social  relations  in  my  married  life  ! 

I  knelt  down,  put  my  arms  round  her,  and  looked  up  in  her 
face. 

“Dear  Judy,”  I  said,  “you  mistake  me  cpiite.  I  never 


3i 


Judy's  Visit. 

tli ought  of  Mr.  Morley  when  I  said  that.  How  should  I  have 
dared  to  say  such  things  if  I  had  ?  He  is  a  most  kind  good 
man,  and  papa  and  every  one  is  glad  when  he  comes  to  see  us. 
I  dare  say  he  does  like  to  sleep  well  —  I  know  Percivale  does 
and  I  don’t  doubt  he  likes  to  get  on  with  what  he’s  at — Per¬ 
civale  does,  for  he’s  ever  so  much  better  company  when  he  has 
got  on  with  his  picture ;  and  I  know  he  likes  to  see  me  well 
dressed  -  at  least  I  haven’t  tried  him  with  anything  else  yet,  for 
I  have  plenty  of  clothes  for  a  while;  and  then  for  the  dinner, 
which  I  believe  was  one  of  the  points  in  the  description  I  gave 
—  I  wish  Percivale  cared  a  little  more  for  his,  for  then  it  would 
be  easier  to  do  something  for  him.  As  to  the  newspaper,  there 
I  fear  I  must  give  him  up,  for  I  have  never  yet  seen  him  with 
one  in  his  hand.  He’s  so  stupid  about  some  things  !  ” 

“  Oh  !  you’ve  found  that  out,  have  you  ?  Men  are  stupid  ; 
there’s  no  doubt  of  that.  But  you  don’t  know  my  Walter  yet.” 

I  looked  up,  and,  behold,  Percivale  was  in  the  room  !  His 
face  wore  such  a  curious  expression  that  I  could  hardly  help 
laughing.  And  no  wonder !  for  here  was  I  on  my  knees, 
clasping  my  first  visitor,  and  to  all  appearance  pouring  out  the 
woes  of  my  wedded  life  in  her  lap — woes  so  deep  that  they 
drew  tears  from  her  as  she  listened.  All  this  flashed  upon  me 
as  I  started  to  my  feet,  but  I  could  give  no  explanation ;  I 
could  only  make  haste  to  introduce  my  husband  to  my  cousin 

J  udy. 

He  behaved  of  course  as  if  he  had  heard  nothing.  But  I 
fancy  Judy  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  awkward  position,  for  she 
plunged  into  the  affair  at  once. 

“  Here  is  my  cousin,  Mr.  Percivale,  has  been  abusing  my 
husband  to  my  face,  calling  him  rich  and  stupid,  and  I  don’t 
know  what  all.  I  confess  he  is  so  stupid  as  to  be  very  fond 
of  me,  but  that’s  all  I  know  against  him.” 

And  her  handkerchief  went  once  more  to  her  eyes. 

“  Dear  Judy  !  ”  I  expostulated,  “  you  know  I  didn’t  say  one 
word  about  him.” 

“  Of  course  I  do,  you  silly  coz  !  ”  she  cried,  and  burst  out 


32  The  Vicars  D might er. 

laughing.  “  But  I  won’t  forgive  you  except  you  n.Ae  amends 
by  dining  with  us  to-morrow.” 

Thus  for  the  time  she  carried  it  off ;  but  I  believe,  and  have 
since  had  good  reason  for  believing,  that  she  had  really  mistaken 
me  at  first,  and  been  much  annoyed. 

She  and  Percivale  got  on  very  well.  He  showed  her  the 
portrait  he  was  still  working  at — even  accepted  one  or  two 
trifling  hints  as  to  the  likeness,  and  they  parted  the  best  friends 
in  the  world. 

Glad  as  I  had  been  to  see  her,  how  I  longed  to  see  the  last 
of  her !  The  moment  she  was  gone,  I  threw  myself  into  his 
arms,  and  told  him  how  it  came  about.  He  laughed  heartily. 

“I  was  a  little  puzzled,”  he  said,  “to  hear  you  inform 
a  lady  I  had  never  seen  that  I  was  so  very  stupid.” 

“  But  I  wasn’t  telling  a  story  either,  for  you  know  you  are 
ve-e-e-ry  stupid,  Percivale.  You  don’t  know  a  leg  from  a 
shoulder  of  mutton,  and  you  can’t  carve  a  bit.  How  ever 
you  can  draw  as  you  do,  is  a  marvel  to  me,  when  you  know 
nothing  about  the  shapes  of  things.  It  was  very  wrong  to  say 
it,  even  for  the  sake  of  covering  poor  Mrs.  Morley’s  husband ; 
but  it  was  quite  true,  you  know.” 

“  Perfectly  true,  my  love,”  he  said,  with  something  else  where 
I’ve  only  put  commas ;  “  and  I  mean  to  remain  so,  in  order 
that  you  may  always  have  something  to  fall  back  upon  when 
you  get  yourself  into  a  scrape  by  forgetting  that  other  people 
have  husbands  as  well  as  you.” 


CHAPTER  V. 

“good  society. ” 

We  had  agreed,  rather  against  the  inclination  of  both  of  us, 
to  dine  the  next  evening  with  the  Morleys.  We  should  have 
preferred  our  own  society,  but  we  could  not  refuse. 


“  Good  Society  ” 


33 


“  They  will  be  talking  to  me  about  my  pictures,”  said  my 
husband,  “  and  that  is  just  what  I  hate.  People  that  know 
nothing  of  art,  that  can’t  distinguish  purple  from  black,  will  yet 
parade  their  ignorance,  and  expect  me  to  be  pleased.” 

“  Mr.  Morley  is  a  well-bred  man,  Percivale,”  I  said. 

“  That’s  the  worst  of  it—  they  do  it  for  good  manners  ;  I 
know  the  kind  of  people  perfectly.  1  hate  to  have  my  pictures 
praised.  It  is  as  bad  as  talking  to  one’s  face  about  the  nose 
upon  it.” 

I  wonder  if  all  ladies  keep  their  husbands  waiting.  I  did 
that  night,  I  know,  and,  I  am  afraid,  a  good  many  times  after 
■ — not,  however,  since  Percivale  told  me  very  seriously  that 
being  late  for  dinner  was  the  only  fault  of  mine  the  blame  of 
which  he  would  not  take  on  his  own  shoulders.  The  fact  on 
this  occasion  was,  that  I  could  not  get  my  hair  right.  It  was 
the  first  time  I  missed  what  I  had  been  used  to,  and  longed 
for  the  deft  fingers  of  my  mother’s  maid  to  help  me.  When  I 
told  him  the  cause,  he  said  he  would  do  my  hair  for  me  next 
time,  if  I  would  teach  him  how.  But  I  have  managed  very 
well  since  without  either  him  or  a  lady’s  maid. 

When  we  reached  Bolivar  Square,  we  found  the  company 
waiting;  and  as  if  for  a  rebuke  to  us,  the  butler  announced 
dinner  the  moment  we  entered.  I  was  seated  between 
Mr.  Morley  and  a  friend  of  his  who  took  me  down,  Mr.  Bad- 
deley,  a  portly  gentleman,  with  an  expanse  of  snowy  shirt,  from 
which  flashed  three  diamond  studs.  A  huge  gold  chain 
reposed  upon  his  front,  and  on  his  finger  shone  a  brilliant  of 
great  size.  Everything  about  him  seemed  to  say,  “  Look  how 
real  I  am  !  No  shoddy  about  me  !  ”  His  hands  were  plump 
and  white,  and  looked  as  if  they  did  not  know  what  dust  was. 
His  talk  sounded  very  rich,  and  yet  there  was  no  pretence  in 
it.  His  wife  looked  less  of  a  lady  than  he  of  a  gentleman,  for 
she  betrayed  conscious  importance.  I  found  afterwards  that 
he  was  the  only  son  of  a  railway  contractor,  who  had  himself 
handled  the  spade,  but  at  last  died  enormously  rich.  He  spoke 
blandly,  but  with  a  certain  quiet  authority  which  I  disliked. 


34 


The  Vicar’s  Daughter. 

“  Are  you  fond  of  the  opera,  Mrs.  Percivale  ?  ”  he  asked  me 
in  order  to  make  talk. 

“  I  have  never  been  to  the  opera,”  I  answered. 

“  Never  been  to  the  opera  ?  Ain’t  you  fond  of  music  ?* 

“  Did  you  ever  know  a  lady  that  wasn’t  ?  ” 

“  T hen  you  must  go  to  the  opera.” 

“  But  it  is  just  because  I  fancy  myself  fond  of  music  that  I 
don’t  think  I  should  like  the  opera.” 

“You  can’t  hear  such  music  anywhere  else.’* 

“  But  the  antics  of  the  singers,  pretending  to  be  in  such 
furies  of  passion,  yet  modulating  every  note  with  the  cunning 
of  a  carver  in  ivory,  seems  to  me  so  preposterous !  For  surely 
song  springs  from  a  brooding  over  past  feeling — I  do  not  mean 
lost  feeling — never  from  present  emotion.” 

“Ah  1  you  would  change  your  mind  after  having  once  been. 
I  should  strongly  advise  you  to  go,  if  only  for  once.  You 
ought  now,  really.” 

“An  artist’s  wife  must  do  without  such  expensive  amuse¬ 
ments — except  her  husband’s  pictures  be  very  popular  indeed. 
I  might  as  well  cry  for  the  moon.  The  cost  of  a  box  at  the 
opera  for  a  single  night  would  keep  my  little  household  for  a 
fortnight.” 

“Ah,  well  — but  you  should  see  ‘The  Barber,”’  he  said. 

“  Perhaps  if  I  could  hear  without  seeing,  I  should  like  it 
better,”  I  answered. 

He  fell  silent,  busying  himself  with  his  fish,  and  when  he 
spoke  again  turned  to  the  lady  on  his  left.  I  went  on  with  my 
dinner.  I  knew  that  our  host  had  heard  what  I  said,  for  I  saw 
him  turn  rather  hastily  to  his  butler. 

Mr.  Morley  is  a  man  difficult  to  describe,  stiff  in  the  back, 
and  long  and  loose  in  the  neck,  reminding  me  of  those  toy 
birds  that  bob  head  and  tail  up  and  down  alternate!}'.  When 
he  agrees  with  anything  you  say,  down  comes  his  head  with  a 
rectargular  nod ;  when  he  does  not  agree  with  ycu,  he  is  so 
silent  and  motionless  that  he  leaves  you  in  doubt  whether  he 
lias  heard  a  word  of  what  you  have  been  saying.  His  face  is 


“  Good  Society? 


35 


hard,  and  was  to  me  then  inscrutable  ;  while  what  he  said 
always  seemed  to  have  little  or  nothing  to  do  with  what  he  was 
thinking ;  and  I  had  not  then  learned  whether  he  had  a  heart 
or  not.  His  features  were  well-formed,  but  they  and  his  head 
and  face  too  small  for  his  body.  He  seldom  smiled  except 
when  in  doubt.  He  had,  I  understood,  been  very  successful 
in  business,  and  always  looked  full  of  schemes. 

“  Have  you  been  to  the  Academy  yet  ?  ”  he  asked. 

“  No  ;  this  is  only  the  first  day  of  it.” 

“  Are  your  husband’s  pictures  well  hung?  ” 

‘‘As  high  as  Haman,”  I  answered  ;  “ — skied,  in  fact.  That 
is  the  right  word,  I  believe.” 

“  I  would  advise  you  to  avoid  slang,  my  dear  cousin — pro- 
fessiofial  slang  especially ;  and  to  remember  that  in  London 
there  are  no  professions  after  six  o’clock.” 

“  Indeed  !  ”  I  returned.  “  As  we  came  along  in  the  carriage 
- — cabbage,  I  mean — I  saw  no  end  of  shops  open.” 

“  I  mean  in  society — at  dinner — amongst  friends,  you 
know.” 

“  My  dear  Mr.  Morley,  you  have  just  done  asking  me  about 
my  husband’s  pictures,  and  if  you  listen  a  moment  you  will 
hear  that  lady  next  my  husband  talking  to  him  about  Leslie 
and  Turner,  and  I  don’t  know  who  more — all  in  the  trade.” 

“Hush!  hush!  I  beg,”  he  almost  whispered,  looking 
agonized.  “  That's  Mrs.  Baddeley.  Her  husband,  next  to  you, 
is  a  great  picture-buyer.  That’s  why  I  asked  him  to  meet  you.” 

“  1  thought  there  were  no  professions  in  London  after  six 
o’clock.” 

“  I  am  afraid  I  have  not  made  iny  meaning  quite  clear  to 
you.” 

“Not  quite.  Yet  I  think  I  understand  you.” 

“  We’ll  have  a  talk  about  it  another  time.” 

“  With  pleasure.” 

It  irritated  me  rather  that  he  should  talk  to  me,  a  married 
woman,  as  to  a  little  girl  who  did  not  knowhow  to  behave  her¬ 
self;  but  his  patronage  of  my  husband  displeased  me  far  more, 

i)  2 


36  The  Vicar's  Daughter. 

and  I  was  on  the  point  of  committing  the  terrible  blunder  of 
asking  Mr.  Baddeley  if  he  had  any  poor  relations  ;  but  I 
checked  myself  in  time,  and  prayed  to  know  whether  he  was 
a  member  of  Parliament.  He  answered  that  he  was  not  in 
the  house  at  present,  and  asked  in  return  why  I  had  wished  to 
know.  I  answered  that  I  wanted  a  bill  brought  in  for  the 
punishment  of  fraudulent  milkmen,  for  I  couldn’t  get  a  decent 
pennyworth  of  milk  in  all  Camden  Town.  He  laughed,  and 
said  it  would  be  a  very  desirable  measure,  only  too  great  an 
interference  with  the  liberty  of  the  subject.  I  told  him  that 
kind  of  liberty  was  just  what  law  in  general  owed  its  existence 
to,  and  was  there  on  purpose  to  interfere  with  ;  but  he  did  not 
seem  to  see  it. 

The  fact  is  I  was  very  silly.  Proud  of  being  the  wife  of  an 
artist,  I  resented  the  social  injustice  which  I  thought  gave 
*  artists  no  place  but  one  of  sufferance.  Proud  also  of  being 
poor  for  Percivale’s  sake,  I  made  a  show  of  my  poverty  before 
people  whom  I  supposed,  rightly  enough  in  many  cases,  to  be 
proud  of  their  riches.  But  I  knew  nothing  of  what  poverty 
really  meant,  and  was  as  yet  only  playing  at  being  poor ; 
cherishing  a  foolish,  though  unacknowledged  notion  of  pro¬ 
tecting  my  husband’s  poverty  with  the  segis  of  my  position  as 
the  daughter  of  a  man  of  consequence  in  his  county.  I  was 
thus  wronging  the  dignity  of  my  husband’s  position,  and  com¬ 
plimenting  wealth  by  making  so  much  of  its  absence.  Poverty 
or  wealth  ought  to  have  been  in  my  eyes  such  a  trifle,  that  I 
never  thought  of  publishing  whether  I  was  rich  or  poor.  I 
ought  to  have  taken  my  position  without  wasting  a  thought  on 
what  it  might  appear  in  the  eyes  of  those  about  me,  meeting 
them  on  the  mere  level  of  humanity,  and  leaving  them  to  settle 
with  themselves  how  they  were  to  think  of  me,  and  where  they 
were  to  place  me.  I  suspect  also,  now  that  I  think  of  it,  that 
I  looked  down  upon  my  cousin  Judy  because  she  had  a  mere 
man  of  business  for  her  husband ;  forgetting  that  our  Lord  had 
found  a  collector  of  conquered  taxes,  a  man,  I  presume,  with 
little  enough  of  the  artistic  about  him,  one  of  the  fittest  in  his 


37 


A  Refuge  from  the  Heat. 

nation  to  bear  the  message  of  his  redemption  to  the  hearts  of 
his  countrymen.  It  is  his  loves  and  his  hopes,  not  his  visions 
and  intentions,  by  which  a  man  is  to  be  judged.  My  father 
had  taught  me  all  this,  but  I  did  not  understand  it  then,  nor 
until  years  after  I  had  left  him. 

“  Is  Mrs.  Percivale  a  lady  of  fortune?”  asked  Mr.  Baddeley 
of  my  cousin  Judy  when  we  were  gone,  for  we  were  the  first 
to  leave. 

“Certainly  not.  Why  do  you  ask?  ”  she  returned. 

“  Because,  from  her  talk,  I  thought  she  must  be,”  he 
answered. 

Cousin  Judy  told  me  this  the  next  day,  and  I  could  see  she 
thought  I  had  been  bragging  of  my  family.  So  I  recounted  all 
the  conversation  I  had  had  with  him,  as  nearly  as  I  could 
recollect,  and  set  down  the  question  to  an  impertinent  irony. 
But  I  have  since  changed  my  mind  :  I  now  judge  that  he 
could  not  believe  any  poor  person  would  joke  about  poverty. 
I  never  found  one  of  those  people  who  go  about  begging  for 
charities  believe  me  when  I  told  him  the  simple  truth  that  I 
could  not  afford  to  subscribe.  None  but  a  rich  person,  they 
seem  to  think,  would  dare  such  an  excuse,  and  that  only  in 
the  just  expectation  that  its  very  assertion  must  render  it 
incredible. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A  REFUGE  FROM  THE  HEAT. 

There  was  a  little  garden,  one  side  enclosed  by  the  house, 
another  by  the  studio,  and  the  remaining  two  by  walls,  evidently 
built  for  the  nightly  convenience  of  promenading  cats.  There 
was  one  pear-tree  in  the  grass  plot  which  occupied  the  centre, 
and  a  few  small  fruit  trees,  which,  I  may  now  safely  say,  never 


38  The  Vicar's  Daughter . 

bore  anything,  upon  the  walls.  But  the  last  occupant  had 
cared  for  his  garden,  and  when  I  came  to  the  cottage  it  was, 
although  you  would  hardly  believe  it  now  that  my  garden  is 
inside  the  house,  a  pretty  little  spot — only  if  you  stop  thinking 
about  a  garden,  it  begins  at  once  to  go  to  the  bad.  Used 
although  I  had  been  to  great  wide  lawns  and  park  and 
gardens  and  wilderness,  the  tiny  enclosure  soon  became  to 
me  the  type  of  the  boundless  universe.  The  streets  roared 
about  me  with  ugly  omnibuses  and  uglier  cabs,  fine  carriages, 
huge  earth-shaking  drays,  and,  worse  far,  with  the  cries  of  all 
the  tribe  of  costermongers — one  especially  offensive  which 
soon  began  to  haunt  me.  I  almost  hated  the  man  who  sent  it 
forth  to  fill  the  summer  air  with  disgust.  He  always  put  his 
hollowed  hand  to  his  jaw,  as  if  it  were  loose  and  he  had  to 
hold  it  in  its  place,  before  he  uttered  his  hideous  howl,  which 
would  send  me  hurrying  up  the  stairs  to  bury  my  head  under 
all  the  pillows  of  my  bed  until,  coming  back  across  the  wilder¬ 
ness  of  streets  and  lanes  like  the  cry  of  a  jackal  growing 
fainter  and  fainter  upon  the  wind,  it  should  pass  and  die  away 
in  the  distance.  Suburban  London,  I  say,  was  roaring  about 
me,  and  I  was  confined  to  a  few  square  yards  of  grass  and 
gravel  walk  and  flower  plot ;  but  above  was  the  depth  of  the 
sky,  and  thence  at  night  the  hosts  of  heaven  looked  in  upon  me 
with  the  same  calm  assured  glance  with  which  they  shone  upon 
southern  forests,  swarming  with  great  butterflies  and  creatures 
that  go  flaming  through  the  tropic  darkness ;  and  there  the 
moon  would  come  and  cast  her  lovely  shadows ;  and  there 
was  room  enough  to  feel  alone  and  to  try  to  pray.  And  what 
was  strange,  the  room  seemed  greater,  though  the  loneliness 
was  gone,  when  my  husband  walked  up  and  down  in  it  with 
me.  True,  the  greater  part  of  the  walk  seemed  to  be  the 
turnings,  for  they  always  came  just  when  you  wanted  to  go  on 
and  on  ;  but  even  with  the  scope  of  the  world  for  your  walk, 
you  must  turn  and  come  back  some  time.  At  first,  when  he  was 
smoking  his  great  brown  meerschaum,  he  and  I  would  walk 
in  opposite  directions,  passing  each  other  in  the  middle,  and 


39 


A  Refuge  from  the  Heat . 

so  make  the  space  double  the  size,  for  he  had  all  the  garden 
to  himself,  and  I  had  it  all  to  myself ;  and  so  I  had  his  garden 
and  mine  too.  That  is  how  by  degrees  I  got  able  to  bear 
the  smoke  of  tobacco,  for  I  had  never  been  used  to  it,  and 
found  it  a  small  trial  at  first,  but  now  I  have  got  actually  to  like 
it,  and  greet  a  stray  whiff  from  the  study  like  a  message  from  my 
husband.  I  fancy  I  could  tell  the  smoke  of  that  old  black 
and  red  meerschaum  from  the  smoke  of  any  other  pipe  in 
creation. 

“  You  ?nust  cure  him  of  that  bad  habit,”  said  cousin  Judy 
to  me  once. 

It  made  me  angry.  What  right  had  she  to  call  anything  my 
husband  did  a  bad  habit?  and  to  expect  me  to  agree  with  her  was 
ten  times  worse.  I  am  saving  my  money  now  to  buy  him  a  grand 
new  pipe  ;  and  I  may  just  mention  here,  that  once  I  spent 
ninepence  out  of  my  last  shilling  to  get  him  a  packet  of  Bristol 
bird’s-eye,  for  he  was  on  the  point  of  giving  up  smoking 
altogether  because  of — well,  because  of  what  will  appear  by- 
and-by. 

England  is  getting  dreadfully  crowded  with  mean,  ugly 
houses.  If  they  were  those  of  the  poor  and  struggling,  and  not 
of  the  rich  and  comfortable,  one  might  be  consoled.  But  rich 
barbarism,  in  the  shape  of  ugliness,  is  again  pushing  us  to  the 
sea.  There,  however,  its  “  control  stops  ;  ”  and  since  I  lived 
in  London  the  sea  has  grown  more  precious  to  me  than  it  was 
even  in  those  lovely  days  at  Kilkhaven — merely  because  no  one 
can  build  upon  it.  Ocean  and  sky  remain  as  God  made  them. 
He  must  love  space  for  us,  though  it  be  needless  for  himself ; 
seeing  that  in  all  the  magnificent  notions  of  creation  afforded 
us  by  astronomers — shoal  upon  shoal  of  suns,  each  the  centre  of 
complicated  and  infinitely  varied  systems — the  spaces  between 
are  yet  more  overwhelming  in  their  vast  inconceivableness. 
I  thank  God  for  the  room  he  thus  gives  us,  and  hence  can 
endure  to  see  the  fair  face  of  his  England  disfigured  by  the 
mud-pies  of  his  children. 

There  was  in  the  garden  a  little  summer-house,  of  which  I  was 


40 


The  Vicars  Daughter . 

very  fond,  chiefly  because,  knowing  my  passion  for  the  flower, 
Percivale  had  surrounded  it  with  a  multitude  of  sweet-peas, 
which  as  they  grew,  he  had  trained  over  the  trellis-work  of  its 
sides.  Through  them  filtered  the  sweet  airs  of  the  summer  as 
through  an  HUolian  harp  of  unheard  harmonies.  To  sit  thei^ 
in  a  warm  evening,  when  the  moth-airs  just  woke  and  gave 
two  or  three  wafts  of  their  wings  and  ceased,  was  like  sitting  in 
the  midst  of  a  small  gospel. 

The  summer  had  come  on,  and  the  days  were  very  hot — so 

hot  and  changeless,  with  their  unclouded  skies  and  their 

glowing  centre,  that  they  seemed  to  grow  stupid  with  their 

own  heat.  It  was  as  if — like  a  hen  brooding  over  her 

dickens — the  day,  brooding  over  its  coming  harvest,  grew 

dull  and  sleepy,  living  only  in  what  was  to  come.  Not  with- 
•  •  / 
standing  the  feelings  I  have  just  recorded,  I  began  to  long  for 

a  wider  horizon,  whence  some  wind  might  come  and  blow 

upon  me,  and  wake  me  up,  not  merely  to  live,  but  to  know 

that  I  lived. 

One  afternoon,  I  left  my  little  summer-seat,  where  I  had 
been  sitting  at  work,  and  went  through  the  house,  and  down 
the  precipice,  into  my  husband’s  study. 

“  It  is  so  hot,”  I  said,  “I  will  try  my  little  grotto  ;  it  may 
be  cooler.” 

He  opened  the  door  for  me,  and,  with  his  palette  on  his 
thumb,  and  a  brush  in  his  hand,  sat  down  for  a  moment  beside 
me. 

“This  heat  is  too  much  for  you,  darling,”  he  said. 

“  I  do  feel  it.  I  wish  I  could  get  from  the  garden  into  my 
nest  without  going  up  through  the  house  and  down  the  Jacob’s 
ladder,”  I  said.  “  It  is  so  hot !  I  never  felt  heat  like  it 
before.” 

He  sat  silent  for  awhile,  and  then  said  : 

“  I’ve  been  thinking  I  must  get  you  into  the  country  for  a 
few  weeks.  It  would  do  you  no  end  of  good.” 

“  I  suppose  the  wind  does  blow  somewhere,”  I  returned. 
“  But — ” 


s 


4t 


A  Refuge  from  the  Heat . 

“You  don’t  want  to  leave  me?  ”  he  said. 

“  I  don’t.  And  I  know  with  that  ugly  portrait  on  hand  you 
can’t  go  with  me.” 

He  happened  to  be  painting  the  portrait  of  a  plain  red-faced 
lady,  in  a  delicate  lace  cap — a  very  unfit  subject  for  art— much 
needing  to  be  made  over  again  first,  it  seemed  to  me.  Only 
there  she  was,  with  a  right  to  have  her  portrait  painted  if  she 
wished  it ;  and  there  was  Percivale,  with  time  on  his  hands 
and  room  in  his  pockets,  and  the  faith  that  whatever  God  had 
thought  worth  making  could  not  be  unworthy  of  representa¬ 
tion.  Hence  he  had  willingly  undertaken  a  likeness  of  her,  to  be 
finished  within  a  certain  time,  and  was  now  working  at  it  as 
conscientiously  as  if  it  had  been  the  portrait  of  a  lovely  young 
duchess  or  peasant  girl.  I  was  only  afraid  he  would  make  it  too 
like  to  please  the  lady  herself.  His  time  was  now  getting 
short,  and  he  could  not  leave  home  before  fulfilling  his  engage¬ 
ment. 

“  But,”  he  returned,  “  why  shouldn’t  you  go  to  the  Hall  for 
a  week  or  two  without  me?  I  will  take  you  down  and  come 
and  fetch  you.” 

“  I’m  so  stupid  you  want  to  get  rid  of  me  !  ”  I  said. 

I  did  not  in  the  least  believe  it,  and  yet  was  on  the  edge  of 
crying,  which  is  not  a  habit  with  me. 

“  You  know  better  than  that,  my  Wynnie,”  he  answered 
gravely.  “  You  want  your  mother  to  comfort  you.  And  there 
must  be  some  air  in  the  country.  So  tell  Sarah  to  put  up  your 
things,  and  I’ll  take  you  down  to-morrow  morning.  When  I 
get  this  portrait  done,  I  will  come  and  stay  a  few  days,  if  they 
will  have  me,  and  then  take  you  home.” 

The  thought  of  seeing  my  mother  and  my  father,  and  the 
old  place,  came  over  me  with  a  rush.  I  felt  all  at  once  as  if  I 
had  been  absent  for  years  instead  of  weeks.  I  cried  in  earnest 
now — with  delight  though— and  there  is  no  shame  in  that. 
So  it  was  all  arranged,  and  next  afternoon  I  was  lying  on  a 
couch  in  the  yellow  drawing-room,  with  my  mother  seated 
beside  me,  and  Connie  in  an  easy-chair  by  the  open  window, 


42 


The  Vicars  Daughter, 

through  which  came  every  now  and  then  such  a  sweet  wa\  e  of 
air  as  bathed  me  with  hope,  and  seemed  to  wash  all  the  noises, 
even  the  loose-jawed  man’s  hateful  howl,  from  my  brain. 

Yet,  glad  as  I  was  to  be  once  more  at  home,  I  felt,  when 
Percivale  left  me  the  next  morning  to  return  by  a  third-class 
train  to  his  ugly  portrait,  for  the  lady  was  to  sit  to  him  that 
same  afternoon,  that  the  idea  of  home  was  already  leaving 
Oldcastle  Hall,  and  flitting  back  to  the  suburban  cottage 
haunted  by  the  bawling  voice  of  the  costermonger. 

But  I  soon  felt  better,  for  here  there  was  plenty  of  shadow, 
and  in  the  hottest  days  my  father  could  always  tell  where  any 
wind  would  be  stirring;  for  he  knew  every  out  and  in  of  the 
place  like  his  own  pockets,  as  Dora  said,  who  took  a  little  after 
cousin  Judy  in  her  way.  It  will  give  a  notion  of  his  tender¬ 
ness  if  I  set  down  just  one  tiniest  instance  of  his  attention  to 
me.  The  forenoon  was  oppressive.  I  was  sitting  under  a 
tree,  trying  to  read  when  he  came  up  to  me.  There  was  a 
wooden  gate,  with  open  bars  near.  He  went  and  set  it  wide, 
saying,— 

“  There,  my  love  1  You  will  fancy  yourself  cooler  if  I  leave 
the  gate  open.” 

Will  my  reader  laugh  at  me  for  mentioning  such  a  trifle?  I 
think  not,  for  it  went  deep  to  my  heart,  and  I  seemed  to  know 
God  better  for  it  ever  after.  A  father  is  a  great  and  marvellous 
truth,  and  one  you  can  never  get  at  the  depth  of,  try  how  you 

may. 

Then  my  mother  !  She  was  if  possible  yet  more  to  me  than 
my  father.  I  could  tell  her  anything  and  everything  without 
fear,  while  I  confess  to  a  little  dread  of  my  father  still.  He  is 
too  like  my  own .  conscience  to  allow  of  my  being  quite  con¬ 
fident  with  him.  But  Connie  is  just  as  comfortable  with  him 
as  I  am  with  my  mother.  If  in  my  childhood  I  was  ever 
tempted  to  conceal  anything  from  her,  the  very  thought  of  it 
made  me  miserable  until  I  had  told  her.  And  now  she  would 
ivatch  me  with  her  gentle  dove-like  eyes,  and  seemed  to  know 
St  once,  without  being  told,  what  was  the  matter  with  me- 


Connie . 


43 


She  never  asked  me  what  I  should  like,  but  went  and  brought 
something,  and  if  she  saw  that  I  didn’t  care  for  it,  wouldn’t  press 
me,  or  offer  anything  instead,  but  chat  for  a  minute  or  two,  carry 
it  away,  and  return  with  something  else.  My  heart  was  like  to 
break  at  times  with  the  swelling  of  the  love  that  was  in  it.  My 
eldest  child,  my  Ethelwyn — for  my  husband  would  have  her 
called  the  same  name  as  me,  only  I  insisted  it  should  be  after 
my  mother  and  not  after  me — has  her  very  eyes,  and  for  years 
has  been  trying  to  mother  me  over  again  to  the  best  of  her 
sweet  ability. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

CONNIE. 

It  is  high  time  though  that  I  dropped  writing  about  myself 
for  a  while.  I  don’t  find  myself  so  interesting  as  it  used  to  be. 

The  worst  of  some  kinds  especially  of  small  illnesses  is  that 
they  make  you  think  a  great  deal  too  much  about  yourself. 
Connie’s,  which  was  a  great  and  terrible  one,  never  made  her 
do  so.  She  was  always  forgetting  herself  in  her  interest  about 
others.  I  think  I  was  made  more  selfish  to  begin  with  ;  and 
yet  I  have  a  hope  that  a  too-much-thinking  about  yourself  may 
not  always  be  pure  selfishness.  It  may  be  something  else 
wrong  in  you  that  makes  you  uncomfortable,  and  keeps 
drawing  your  eyes  towards  the  aching  place.  I  will  hope  so 
till  I  get  rid  of  the  whole  business,  and  then  I  shall  not  care 
much  how  it  came  or  what  it  was. 

Connie  was  now  a  thin,  pale,  delicate-looking — not  hand¬ 
some,  but  lovely  girl.  Her  eyes,  some  people  said,  were  too 
big  for  her  face,  but  that  seemed  to  me  no  more  to  the  discredit 
of  her  beauty  than  it  would  have  been  a  reproach  to  say 
that  her  soul  was  too  big  for  her  body.  She  had  been  early 
ripened  by  the  hot  sun  of  suffering,  and  the  self-restraint  which 


41  The  Vicar  s  Daughter. 

pain  had  taught  her.  Patience  had  mossed  her  over,  and  made 
her  warm  and  soft  and  sweet.  She  never  looked  for  attention, 
but  accepted  all  that  was  offered  with  a  smile  which  seemed 
to  say — “  It  is  more  than  I  need,  but  you  are  so  good  I 
mustn’t  spoil  it.”  She  was  not  confined  to  her  sofa  now, 
though  she  needed  to  lie  down  often,  but  could  walk  about 
pretty  well,  only  you  must  give  her  time.  You  could  always 
make  her  merry  by  saying  she  walked  like  an  old  woman  ;  and 
it  was  the  only  way  we  could  get  rid  of  the  sadness  of  seeing  it. 
We  betook  ourselves  to  her  to  laugh  her  sadness  away  from  us. 

Once,  as  I  lay  on  a  couch  on  the  lawn,  she  came  towards  me 
carrying  a  bunch  of  grapes  from  the  greenhouse— a  great 
bunch,  each  individual  grape  ready  to  burst  with  the  sunlight 
it  had  bottled  up  in  its  swollen  purple  skin. 

“  They  are  too  heavy  for  you,  old  lady,”  I  cried. 

“  Yes  :  I  am  an  old  lady,”  she  answered.  “Think  what 
good  use  of  my  time  I  have  made  compared  with  you  !  I 
have  got  ever  so  far  before  you  :  I’ve  nearly  forgotten  how  to 
walk  !  ” 

The  tears  gathered  in  my  eyes  as  she  left  me  with  the  bunch, 
for  how  could  one  help  being  sad  to  think  of  the  time  when  she 
used  to  bound  like  a  fawn  over  the  grass,  her  slender  figure 
borne  like  a  feather  on  its  own  slight  yet  firm  muscles,  which 
used  to  knot  so  much  harder  than  any  of  ours.  She  turned 
to  say  something,  and,  perceiving  my  emotion,  came  slowly  back. 

“  Dear  Wynnie,”  she  said,  “  you  wouldn’t  have  me  back 
with  my  old  foolishness,  would  you  ?  Believe  me  life  is  ten 
times  more  precious  than  it  was  before.  I  feel,  and  enjoy,  ana 
love  so  much  more  !  I  don’t  know  how  often  I  thank  God  foi 
what  befell  me.” 

I  could  only  smile  an  answer,  unable  to  speak,  not  now 
from  pity,  but  from  shame  of  my  own  petulant  restlessness 
and  impatient  helplessness. 

I  believe  she  had  a  special  affection  for  poor  Sprite,  the  pony 
which  threw  her — special  I  mean  since  the  accident — regarding 
him  as  in  some  sense  the  angel  which  had  driven  her  out  of 


s 


Connie . 


45 


paradise  into  a  better  world.  If  ever  he  got  loose,  and 
Connie  was  anywhere  about,  he  was  sure  to  find  her  :  he  was  an 
omnivorous  animal,  and  she  had  always  something  he  would 
eat  when  his  favourite  apples  were  unattainable.  More  than 
once  she  had  been  roused  from  her  sleep  on  the  lawn  by  the 
lips  and  the  breath  of  Sprite  upon  her  face  ;  but,  although  one 
painful  sign  of  her  weakness  was,  that  she  started  at  the  least 
noise  or  sudden  discovery  of  a  presence,  she  never  started  at 
the  most  unexpected  intrusion  of  Sprite,  any  more  than  at  the 
voice  of  my  father  or  mother.  Need  I  say  there  was  one  more 
whose  voice  or  presence  never  startled  her  ? 

The  relation  between  them  was  lovely  to  see.  Turner  was  a 
fine,  healthy,  broad-shouldered  fellow,  of  bold  carriage  and  frank 
manners,  above  the  middle  height,  with  rather  large  features, 
keen  black  eyes,  and  great  personal  strength.  Yet  to  such  a 
man,  poor  little  wan-faced  big  eyed  Connie  assumed  imperious 
airs,  mostly,  but  perhaps  not  entirely,  for  the  fun  of  it ;  while  he 
looked  only  enchanted  every  time  she  honoured  him  with  a 
little  tyranny. 

“  There!  I’m  tired,”  she  would  say,  holding  out  her  arms  like 
a  baby.  “  Carry  me  in.” 

And  the  great  strong  man  would  stoop  with  a  worshipping 
look  in  his  eyes,  and  taking  her  carefully  would  carry  her  in  as 
lightly,  and  gently,  and  steadily,  as  if  she  had  been  but  the  baby 
whose  manners  she  had  for  the  moment  assumed.  This  began, 
of  course,  when  she  was  unable  to  walk,  but  it  did  not  stop 
then,  for  she  would  occasionally  tell  him  to  carry  her  after  she 
was  quite  capable  of  crawling  at  least.  They  had  now  been 
engaged  for  some  months,  and  before  me,  as  a  newly-married 
woman,  they  did  not  mind  talking  a  little. 

One  day  she  was  lying  on  a  rug  on  the  lawn,  with  him 
on  the  grass  beside  her,  leaning  on  his  elbow,  and  looking 
down  into  her  sky-like  eyes.  She  lifted  her  hand  and  stroked 
his  moustache  with  a  forefinger,  while  he  kept  as  still  as  a 
statue,  or  one  who  fears  to  scare  the  bird  that  is  picking  up  the 
crumbs  at  his  feet. 


40 


The  Vicar's  Daughter . 

“  Poor,  poor  man  !  ”  she  said  ;  and  from  the  tone  I  knew  the 
tears  had  begun  to  gather  in  those  eyes. 

“  Why  do  you  pity  me,  Connie  ?  ”  he  asked. 

“  Because  you  will  have  such  a  wretched  little  creature  foi 
a  wife  some  day — or  perhaps  never — which  would  be  best  alter 
all.” 

He  answered  cheerily, — 

“  If  you  will  kindly  allow  me  my  choice,  I  prefer  just  such 
a  wretched  little  creature  to  any  one  else  in  the  world.” 

“  And  why,  pray  ?  Give  a  good  reason,  and  I  will  forgive 
your  bad  taste.” 

“  Because  she  won’t  be  able  to  hurt  me  much  when  she  beats 
me.” 

“  A  better  reason,  or  she  will.” 

“  Because  I  can  punish  her  if  she  isn’t  good  by  taking  her  up 
in  my  arms  and  carrying  her  about  until  she  gives  in.” 

“  A  better  reason,  or  I  shall  be  naughty  directly.” 

“  Because  I  shall  always  know  where  to  find  her.” 

“  Ah,  yes ;  she  must  leave  you  to  find  her.  But  that’s  a 
silly  reason.  If  you  don’t  give  me  a  better,  I’ll  get  up  and 
walk  into  the  house.” 

“  Because  there  won’t  be  anv  waste  of  me.  Will  that  do  ?  ” 

j 

“  What  do  you  mean  ?  ”  she  asked  with  mock  imperiousness. 

“  I  mean  that  I  shall  be  able  to  lay  not  only  my  heart  but 
my  brute  strength  at  her  feet.  I  shall  be  allowed  to  be  her 
beast  of  burden,  to  carry  her  whither  she  would ;  and  so  with 
my  body  her  to  worship  more  than  most  husbands  have  a 
chance  of  worshipping  their  wives.” 

“  There  !  take  me,  take  me  !  ”  she  said,  stretching  up  her 
wms  to  him.  “  How  good  you  are  !  I  don’t  deserve  such 
a  great  man  one  bit.  But  I  zvill  love  him.  Take  me  directly, 
for  there’s  Wynnie  listening  to  every  word  we  say  to  each  other, 
and  laughing  at  us.  She  can  laugh  without  looking  like  it.” 

The  fact  is  I  was  crying,  and  the  creature  knew  it. 
Turner  brought  her  to  me,  and  held  her  down  for  me  to  kiss; 
then  carried  her  in  to  her  mother. 


47 


Connie's  Baby. 

I  believe  the  county  people  round  considered  our  family  far 
gone  on  the  inclined  plane  of  degeneracy.  First,  my  mother, 
the  heiress,  had  married  a  clergyman  of  no  high  family; 
then  they  had  given  their  eldest  daughter  to  a  poor  artist, 
something  of  the  same  standing  as — well,  I  will  be  rude  to 
no  order  of  humanity,  and  therefore  avoid  comparisons ;  and 
now  it  was  generally  known  that  Connie  was  engaged  to  a 
country  practitioner,  a  man  who  made  up  his  own  prescrip¬ 
tions.  We  talked  and  laughed  over  certain  remarks  of  the 
kind  that  reached  us,  and  compared  our  two  with  the  gentle¬ 
men  about  us — in  no  way  to  the  advantage  of  any  of  the  latter, 
you  may  be  sure.  It  was  silly  work  ;  but  we  were  only  two 
loving  girls  with  the  best  possible  reasons  for  being  proud  of 
the  men  who  had  honoured  us  with  their  love. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Connie’s  baby. 

It  is  time  I  told  my  readers  something  about  the  little  Theo¬ 
dora.  She  was  now  nearly  four  years  old,  I  think — a  dark- 
skinned,  lithe-1  imbed,  wild  little  creature,  very  pretty — at  least, 
most  people  said  so,  while  others  insisted  that  she  had  a  com¬ 
mon  look.  I  admit  she  was  not  like  a  lady’s  child — only  one 
has  seen  ladies’ children  look  common  enough;  neither  did  she 
look  like  the  child  of  working  people — though  amongst  such 
again  one  sees  sometimes  a  child  the  oldest  family  in  England 
might  be  proud  of.  The  fact  is,  she  had  a  certain  tinge  of  the 
savage  about  her,  specially  manifest  in  a  certain  furtive  look  of 
her  black  eyes,  with  which  she  seemed  now  and  then  to  be 
measuring  you,  and  her  prospects  in  relation  to  you.  I  have 
seen  the  child  of  cultivated  parents  sit  and  stare  at  a  stranger 
from  her  stool  in  the  most  persistent  manner,  never  withdrawing 
her  eyes,  as  if  she  would  pierce  to  his  soul,  and  understand  by 


48  The  Vicar's  Daughter. 

very  force  of  insight  whether  he  was  or  was  not  one  to  be 
honoured  with  her  confidence  ;  and  I  have  often  seen  the  side¬ 
long  glance  of  sly  merriment,  or  loving  shyness,  or  small 
coquetry  ;  but  I  have  never,  in  any  other  child,  seen  that  look 
of  self-protective  speculation  ;  and  it  used  to  make  me  uneasy, 
for,  of  course,  like  every  one  else  in  the  house,  I  loved  the 
child.  She  was  a  wayward,  often  unmanageable  creature,  but 
affectionate — sometimes  after  an  insane,  or,  at  least,  very  ape¬ 
like  fashion.  Every  now  and  then  she  would  take  an  unaccount¬ 
able  preference  for  some  one  of  the  family  or  household,  at  one 
time  for  the  old  housekeeper,  at  another  for  the  stable-boy,  at 
another  for  one  of  us ;  in  which  fits  of  partiality  she  would 
always  turn  a  blind  and  deaf  side  upon  every  one  else,  actually 
seeming  to  imagine  she  showed  the  strength  of  her  love  to  ths 
one  by  the  paraded  exclusion  of  the  others.  I  cannot  tell  how 
much  of  this  was  natural  to  her,  and  how  much  the  result  of  the 
foolish  and  injurious  jealousy  of  the  servants.  I  say  servants , 
because  I  know  such  an  influencing  was  all  but  impossible  in  the 
family  itself.  If  my  father  heard  any  one  utter  such  a  phrase  as 
“  Don’t  you  love  me  best  ” — or,  “  better  than  ”  such  a  one  ?  or, 
“  Ain’t  I  your  favourite  ?  ” — well,  you  all  know  my  father,  and 
know  him  really,  for  he  never  wrote  a  word  he  did  not  believe — 
but  you  would  have  been  astonished,  I  venture  to  think,  and 
perhaps  at  first  bewildered  as  well,  by  the  look  of  indignation 
flashed  from  his  eyes.  He  was  not  the  gentle,  all-excusing  man 
some  readers,  I  know,  fancy  him  from  his  writings.  He  was 
gentle  even  to  tenderness  when  he  had  time  to  think  a  moment, 
and  in  any  quiet  judgment  he  always  took  as  much  the  side  of 
the  offender  as  was  possible  with  any  likelihood  of  justice; 
but  in  the  first  moments  of  contact  with  what  he  thought  bad 
in  principle,  and  that  in  the  smallest  trifle,  he  would  speak 
words  that  made  even  those  who  were  not  included  in  the  con¬ 
demnation  tremble  with  sympathetic  fear.  “There,  Harry,  you 
take  it — quick,  or  Charley  will  have  it,”  said  the  nurse  one  day, 
little  thinking  who  overheard  her.  “  Woman  !  ”  cried  a  voice 
of  wrath  from  the  corridor,  “  do  you  know  what  you  are  doing  ? 


49 


Connie's  Baby . 

Would  you  make  him  two-fold  more  the  child  of  hell  than  your¬ 
self  ?  ”  An  hour  after,  she  was  sent  for  to  the  study ;  and  when 
she  came  out  her  eyes  were  very  red.  My  father  was  unusually 
silent  at  dinner;  and  after  the  younger  ones  were  gone,  he 
turned  to  my  mother,  and  said  : — “  Ethel,  I  spoke  the  truth. 
All  that  is  of  the  devil — horribly  bad  ;  and  yet  I  am  more  to 
blame  in  my  condemnation  of  them  than  she  for  the  words 
themselves.  The  thought  of  so  polluting  die  mind  of  a  child 
makes  me  fierce,  and  the  wrath  of  man  worketh  not  the 
righteousness  of  God.  The  old  Adam  is  only  too  glad  to  get 
a  word  in,  if  even  in  behalf  of  his  supplanting  successor.”  Then 
he  rose,  and  taking  my  mother  by  the  arm,  walked  away  with 
ner.  I  confess  I  honoured  him  for  his  self-condemnation 
the  most.  I  must  add  that  the  offending  nurse  had  been  ten 
years  in  the  family,  and  ought  to  have  known  better. 

But  to  return  to  Theodora.  She  was  subject  to  attacks  of  the 
most  furious  passion,  especially  when  anything  occurred  to 
thwart  the  indulgence  of  the  ephemeral  partiality  I  have  just 
described.  Then,  wherever  she  was,  she  would  throw  herself 
down  at  once — on  the  floor,  on  the  walk  or  lawn,  or,  as 
happened  on  one  occasion,  in  the  water — and  kick  and 
scream.  At  such  times  she  cared  nothing  even  for  my  father, 
of  whom  generally  she  stood  in  considerable  awe — a  feeling  he 
rather  encouraged.  “  She  has  plenty  of  people  about  her  to 
represent  the  gospel,”  he  said  once  ;  “  I  will  keep  the  depart¬ 
ment  of  the  law,  without  which  she  never  will  appreciate  the 
gospel.  My  part  will,  I  trust,  vanish  in  due  time,  and  the  law 
turn  out  to  have  been,  after  all,  only  the  imperfect  gospel,  just 
as  the  leaf  is  the  imperfect  flower.  But  the  gospel  is  no  gospel 
till  it  gets  into  the  heart,  and  it  sometimes  wants  a  torpedo  to 
blow  the  gates  of  that  open.”  For  no  torpedo  or  Krupp  gun, 
however,  did  Theodora  care  at  such  times  ;  and  after  repeated 
experience  of  the  inefficacy  of  coaxing,  my  father  gave  orders  that, 
when  a  fit  occurred,  every  one,  without  exception,  should  not 
merely  leave  her  alone,  but  go  out  of  sight,  and  if  possible  out  of 
hearing— at  least  out  of  her  hearing — that  she  might  know  she  had 

E 


50 


The  Vicar's  Daughter 

driven  her  friends  far  from  her,  and  be  brought  to  a  sense  ofloneln 
ness  and  need.  I  am  pretty  sure  that  if  she  had  been  one  of  us, 
that  is,  one  of  his  own,  he  would  have  taken  sharper  measures 
with  her ;  but  he  said  we  must  never  attempt  to  treat  other 
people’s  children  as  our  own,  for  they  are  not  our  own.  We 
did  not  love  them  enough,  he  said,  to  make  severity  safe  either 
for  them  or  for  us. 

The  plan  worked  so  far  well,  that,  after  a  time  varied  in 
length  according  to  causes  inscrutable,  she  would  always  re¬ 
appear  smiling ;  but  as  to  any  conscience  of  wrong,  she  seemed 
to  have  no  more  than  nature  herself,  who  looks  out  with  her 
smiling  face  after  hours  of  thunder,  lightning,  and  rain  ;  and, 
although  this  treatment  brought  her  out  of  them  sooner,  the 
fits  themselves  came  quite  as  frequently  as  before. 

But  she  had  another  habit,  more  alarming,  and  more  trouble¬ 
some  as  well :  she  would  not  un frequently  vanish,  and  have  to 
be  long  sought,  for  in  such  case  she  never  reappeared  of  her¬ 
self.  What  made  it  so  alarming  was  that  there  were  dangerous 
places  about  our  house ;  but  she  would  generally  be  found 
seated,  perfectly  quiet,  in  some  out-of-the-way  nook  where  she 
had  never  been  before,  playing,  not  with  any  of  her  toys,  but 
with  something  she  had  picked  up  and  appropriated,  finding 
in  it  some  shadowy  amusement  which  no  one  understood  but 
herself. 

She  was  very  fond  of  bright  colours,  especially  in  dress ; 
and  if  she  found  a  brilliant  or  gorgeous  fragment  of  any  sub¬ 
stance,  would  be  sure  to  hide  it  away  in  some  hole  or  corner, 
perhaps  known  only  to  herself.  Her  love  of  approbation  was 
strong,  and  her  affection  demonstrative,  but  she  had  not  yet 
learned  to  speak  the  truth.  In  a  word  she  must,  we  thought, 
have  come  of  wild  parentage,  so  many  of  her  ways  were  like 
those  of  a  forest  animal. 

In  our  design  of  training  her  for  a  maid  to  Connie,  we 
seemed  already  likely  enough  to  be  frustrated  ;  at  all  events 
there  was  nothing  to  encourage  the  attempt,  seeing  she  had 
some  sort  of  aversion  to  Connie,  amounting  almost  to  dread. 


Connie s  * Baby . 


b 1 

We  could  rarely  persuade  her  to  go  near  her.  Perhaps  it  was 
a  dislike  to  her  helplessness — some  vague  impression  that  her 
lying  all  day  on  the  sofa  indicated  an  unnatural  condition  of 
being,  with  which  she  could  have  no  sympathy.  Those  of  us 
who  had  the  highest  spirits,  the  greatest  exuberance  of  animal 
life,  were  evidently  those  whose  society  was  most  attractive  to 
her.  Connie  tried  all  she  could  to  conquer  her  dislike,  and 
entice  the  wayward  thing  to  her  heart,  but  nothing  would  do. 
Sometimes  she  would  seem  to  soften  for  a  moment,  but  all 
at  once,  with  a  wriggle  and  a  backward  spasm  in  the  arms 
of  the  person  who  carried  her,  she  would  manifest  such  a 
fresh  access  of  repulsion,  that  for  fear  of  an  outburst  of  fierce 
and  objurgatory  wailing  which  might  upset  poor  Connie 
altogether,  she  would  be  borne  off  hurriedly — sometimes,  I 
confess,  rather  ungently  as  well.  I  have  seen  Connie  cry 
because  of  the  child's  treatment  of  her. 

You  could  not  interest  her  so  much  in  any  story  but  that  if 
the  buzzing  of  a  fly,  the  flutter  of  a  bird,  reached  eye  or  ear, 
away  she  would  dart  on  the  instant,  leaving  the  discomfited 
narrator  in  lonely  disgrace.  External  nature  and  almost 
nothing  else  had  free  access  to  her  mind:  at  the  suddenest  sight 
or  sound,  she  was  alive  on  the  instant.  She  was  a  most  amusing 
and  sometimes  almost  bewitching  little  companion,  but  the 
delight  in  her  would  be  not  unfrequently  quenched  by  some 
altogether  unforeseen  outbreak  of  heartless  petulance  or  turbu¬ 
lent  rebellion.  Indeed  her  resistance  to  authority  grew  as  she 
grew  older,  and  occasioned  my  father  and  mother,  and  indeed 
all  of  us,  no  little  anxiety.  Even  Charley  and  Harry  would 
stand  with  open  mouths  contemplating  aghast  the  unheard-of 
atrocity  of  resistance  to  the  will  of  the  unquestioned  authorities. 
It  was- what  they  could  not  understand,  being  to  them  an  im¬ 
possibility.  Such  resistance  was  almost  always  accompanied 
by  storm  and  tempest,  and  the  treatment  which  carried  away 
the  latter,  generally  carried  away  the  former  with  it :  after  the 
passion  had  come  and  gone,  she  would  obey.  Had  it  been 
otherwise— had  she  been  sullen  and  obstinate  as  well— I  do  not 


E  2 


52 


* 


The  Vicars  Daughter, 

know  what  would  have  come  of  it,  or  how  we  could  have  got 
on  at  all.  Miss  Bowdler,  I  am  afraid,  would  have  had  a  very- 
satisfactory  crow  over  papa.  I  have  seen  him  sit  for  minutes 
in  silent  contemplation  of  the  little  puzzle,  trying  no  doubt  to 
fit  her  into  his  theories,  or  as  my  mother  said,  to  find  her  a 
three-legged  stool  and  a  corner  somewhere  in  the  kingdom  of 
heaven ;  and  we  were  certain  something  or  other  would  come 
out  of  that  pondering,  though  whether  the  same  night  or  a 
twelvemonth  after,  no  one  could  tell.  I  believe  the  main  result 
of  his  thinking  was  that  he  did  less  and  less  with  her. 

“  Why  do  you  take  so  little  notice  of  the  child  ?  ”  my 
mother  said  to  him  one  evening.  “It  is  all  your  doing  that 
she  is  here,  you  know.  You  mustn’t  cast  her  off  now.” 

“Cast  her  off!”  exclaimed  my  father  :  “  what  do  you  mean, 
Ethel  ?  ” 

“  You  never  speak  to  her  now.” 

“  Oh  yes  I  do,  sometimes.” 

“  Why  only  sometimes  ?  ” 

“  Because — I  believe  because  I  am  a  little  afraid  of  her.  I 
don’t  know  how  to  attack  the  small  enemy.  She  seems  to  be 
bomb-proof,  and  generally  impregnable.” 

“  But  you  mustn’t  therefore  make  her  afraid  o {you.” 

“  I  don’t  know  that.  I  suspect  it  is  my  only  chance  with  her. 
She  wants  a  little  of  Mount  Sinai,  in  order  that  she  may  know 
where  the  manna  comes  from.  But  indeed  I  am  laying  myself 
out  only  to  catch  the  little  soul.  I  am  but  watching  and  pon¬ 
dering  how  to  reach  her.  I  am  biding  my  time  to  come  in  with 
my  small  stone  for  the  building  up  of  this  temple  of  the  Holy 
Ghost.” 

At  that  very  moment— in  the  last  fold  of  the  twilight,  with  the 
moon  rising  above  the  wooded  brow  of  Gorman  Slope — the 
^urse  came  through  the  darkening  air,  her  figure  hardly  distin¬ 
guishable  from  the  dusk,  saying, — 

“  Please,  ma’am,  have  you  seen  Miss  Theodora  ?  ” 

“  I  don’t  want  you  to  call  her  miss ,”  said  my  father. 

“  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,”  said  the  nurse  ;  “  I  forgot.” 


s 


53 


Connie's  Baby . 

“  I  have  not  seen  her  for  an  hour  or  more,”  said  my  mother. 

“I  declare,”  said  my  father,  I’ll  get  a  retriever  pup,  and 
train  him  to  find  Theodora.  He  will  be  capable  in  a  few 
months,  and  she  will  be  foolish  for  years.” 

Upon  this  occasion  the  truant  was  found  in  the  apple-loft, 
sitting  in  a  corner  upon  a  heap  of  straw,  quite  in  the  dark.  She 
was  discovered  only  by  the  munching  of  her  little  teeth,  for 
she  had  found  some  wizened  apples,  and  was  busy  devouring 
them.  But  my  father  actually  did  what  he  had  said  :  a 
favourite  spaniel  had  pups  a  few  days  after,  and  he  took  one 
of  them  in  hand.  In  an  incredibly  short  space  of  time,  the  long- 
drawn  nose  of  Wagtail,  as  the  children  had  named  him,  in  which, 
doubtless,  was  gathered  the  experience  of  many  thoughtful 
generations,  had  learned  to  track  Theodora  to  whatever  retreat 
she  might  have  chosen  ;  and  very  amusing  it  was  to  watch  the 
course  of  the  proceedings.  Some  one  would  come  running  to 
my  father  with  the  news  that  Theo  was  in  hiding.  Then  my 
father  would  give  a  peculiar  whistle,  and  Wagtail,  who  (I  must 
say  who)  very  seldom  failed  to  respond,  would  come  bounding 
to  his  side.  It  was  necesssary  that  my  father  should  lay  him  on 
(is  that  the  phrase?),  for  he  would  heed  no  directions  from  any 
one  else.  It  was  not  necessary  to  follow  him,  however,  which 
would  have  involved  a  tortuous  and  fatiguing  pursuit ;  but  in  a 
little  while  a  joyous  barking  would  be  heard,  always  kept  up  until 
the  ready  pursuers  were  guided  by  the  sound  to  the  place. 
There  Theo  was  certain  to  be  found  hugging  the  animal,  with¬ 
out  the  least  notion  of  the  traitorous  character  of  his  blandish¬ 
ments  :  it  was  long  before  she  began  to  discover  that  there  was 
danger  in  that  dog’s  nose.  Thus  Wagtail  became  a  very  im¬ 
portant  member  of  the  family — a  bond  of  union,  in  fact,  be¬ 
tween  its  parts.  Theo’s  disappearances,  however,  became  less 
and  less  frequent — not  that  she  made  fewer  attempts  to  abscond, 
but  that,  every  one  knowing  how  likely  she  was  to  vanish,  who¬ 
ever  she  was  with  had  come  to  feel  the  necessity  of  k  £ 
both  eyes  upon  her. 


54 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter : 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  FOUNDLING  RE-FOUND. 

One  evening,  during  this  my  first  visit  to  my  home,  we  had 
gone  to  take  tea  with  the  widow  of  an  old  servant,  who  lived 
in  a  cottage  on  the  outskirts  of  the  home  farm — Connie  and  I 
in  the  pony  carriage,  and  my  father  and  mother  on  foot.  It 
was  quite  dark  when  we  returned,  for  the  moon  was  late. 
Connie  and  I  got  home  first,  though  we  had  a  good  round  to 
make  and  the  path  across  the  fields  was  but  a  third  of  the  dis¬ 
tance,  for  my  father  and  mother  were  lovers,  and  sure  to  be 
late  when  left  out  by  themselves.  When  we  arrived,  there  was 
no  one  to  take  the  pony,  and  when  I  rang  the  bell,  no  one 
answered.  I  could  not  leave  Connie  in  the  carriage  to  go  and 
look,  so  we  waited  and  waited  till  we  were  getting  very  tired, 
and  glad  indeed  we  were  to  hear  the  voices  of  my  father  and 
mother  as  they  came  through  the  shrubbery.  My  mother 
went  to  the  rear  to  make  inquiry,  an*d  came  back  with  the  news 
that  Theo  was  missing,  and  that  they  had  been  searching  for  her 
in  vair  for  nearly  an  hour.  My  father  instantly  called  Wagtail, 
and  sent  him  after  her.  We  then  got  Connie  in,  and  laid  her 
on  the  sofa,  where  I  kept  her  company  while  the  rest  went  in 
different  directions,  listening  from  what  quarter  would  come  the 
welcome  voice  of  the  dog.  This  was  so  long  delayed,  however, 
that  my  father  began  to  get  alarmed.  At  last  he  whistled  very 
loud,  and  in  a  little  while  Wagtail  came  creeping  to  his  feet, 
with  his  tail  between  his  legs — no  wag  left  in  it — clearly  ashamed 
of  himself.  My  father  was  now  thoroughly  frightened,  and 
began  questioning  the  household  as  to  the  latest  knowledge  of 
the  child.  It  then  occurred  to  one  of  the  servants  to  mention  that 
a  strange-looking  woman  had  been  seen  about  the  place  in  the 
morning — a  tall,  dark  woman,  with  a  gipsy  look.  She  had 
come  begging,  but  my  father’s  orders  were  so  strict  concerning 
such  cases  that  nothing  had  been  given  her,  and  she  had  gone 


55 


The  Foundling  Re- found, 

away  in  anger.  As  soon  as  he  heard  this  my  father  ordered 
his  horse,  and  told  two  of  the  men  to  get  ready  to  accompany 
him.  In  the  meantime,  he  came  to  us  in  the  little  drawing¬ 
room,  trying  to  look  calm,  but  evidently  in  much  perturbation.  . 
He  said  he  had  little  doubt  the  woman  had  taken  her. 

“  Could  it  be  her  mother  ?  ”  said  my  mother. 

“  Who  can  tell?  ”  returned  my  father.  “  It  is  tireless  likely 
‘.hat  the  deed  seems  to  have  been  prompted  by  revenge.” 

“  If  she  be  a  gipsy’s  child — ”  said  my  mother. 

“The  gipsies,”  interrupted  my  father,  “have  always  been 
more  given  to  taking  other  people’s  children  than  forsaking 
their  own.  But  one  of  them  might  have  had  reason  for  being 
ashamed  of  her  child,  and,  dreading  the  severity  of  her  family, 
might  have  abandoned  it,  with  the  intention  of  re-possessing 
herself  of  it,  and  passing  it  off  as  the  child  of  gentlefolks  she  had 
picked  up.  I  don’t  know  their  habits  and  ways  sufficiently ; 
but,  from  what  I  have  heard,  that  seems  possible.  However,  it 
is  not  so  easy  as  it  might  have  been  once  to  succeed  in  such  an 
attempt.  If  we  should  fail  in  finding  her  to-night,  the  police 
all  over  the  country  can  be  apprised  of  the  fact  in  a  few  hours, 
and  the  thief  can  hardly  escape.” 

“  But  if  she  should  be  the  mother  ?  ”  suggested  my  mother. 

“  She  will  have  to  prove  that.” 

“  And  then  ?  ” 

“  What  then  ?  ”  returned  my  father,  and  began  pacing  up  and 
down  the  room,  stopping  now  and  then  to  listen  for  the  horses’ 
hoofs. 

“  Would  you  give  her  up?”  persisted  my  mother. 

Still  my  father  made  no  reply.  He  was  evidently  much 
agitated — more,  I  fancied,  by  my  mother’s  question  than  by  the 
present  trouble.  He  left  the  room,  and  presently  his  whistle 
for  Wagtail  pierced  the  still  air.  A  moment  more,  and  we 
heard  them  all  ride  cut  of  the  paved  yard.  I  had  never  known 
him  leave  my  mother  without  an  answer  before. 

We  who  were  left  behind  were  in  evil  plight.  There  was 
not  a  dry  eye  amongst  the  women,  I  am  certain,  while  Harry 


5<5 


The  Vicar's  Daughter . 

was  in  floods  of  tears,  and  Charley  was  howling.  We  could 
not  send  them  to  bed  in  such  a  state,  so  we  kept  them  with  us 
in  the  drawing-room,  where  they  soon  fell  fast  asleep,  one  in  an 
easy-chair,  the  other  on  a  sheepskin  mat.  Connie  lay  quite 
still,  and  my  mother  talked  so  sweetly  and  gently  that  she  soon 
made  me  quiet  too.  But  I  was  haunted  with  the  idea  somehow 
• — I  think  1  must  have  1  een  wandering  a  little,  for  I  was  not 
well — that  it  was  a  child  of  my  own  that  was  lost  out  in  the 
dark  night,  and  that  I  could  not  anyhow  reach  her.  I  cannot 
explain  the  odd  kind  of  feeling  it  was — as  if  a  dream  had  wan¬ 
dered  out  of  the  region  of  sleep,  and  half-possessed  my  waking 
brain.  Every  now  and  then  my  mother’s  voice  would  bring 
me  back  to  my  senses,  and  I  would  understand  it  all  perfectly; 
but  in  a  few  moments  I  would  be  involved  once  more  in  a 
mazy  search  after  my  child.  Perhaps,  however,  as  it  was  by 
that  time  late,  sleep  had,  if  such  a  thing  be  possible,  invaded  a 
part  of  my  brain,  leaving  another  part  able  to  receive  the  im¬ 
pressions  of  the  external  about  me.  I  can  recall  some  of  the 
things  my  mother  said — one  in  particular. 

“  It  is  more  absurd,”  she  said,  “  to  trust  God  by  halves,  than 
it  is  not  to  believe  in  him  at  all.  Your  papa  taught  me  that 
before  one  of  you  was  born.” 

When  my  mother  said  anything  in  the  way  of  teaching  us, 
which  was  not  often,  she  would  generally  add,  “  Your  papa 
taught  me  that,”  as  if  she  would  take  refuge  from  the  assumption 
of  teaching  even  her  own  girls.  But  we  set  a  good  deal  of 
such  assertion  down  to  her  modesty,  and  the  evidently  inex¬ 
tricable  blending  of  the  thought  of  my  father  with  every  move¬ 
ment  of  her  mental  life. 

“  I  remember  quite  well,”  she  went  on,  ie  how  he  made  that 
truth  dawn  upon  me  one  night  as  we  sat  together  beside  the 
old  mill.  Ah  !  you  don’t  remember  the  old  mill ;  it  was  pulled 
down  while  Wynnie  was  a  mere  baby.” 

“  No,  mamma;  I  remember  it  perfectly,”  I  said. 

“Do  you  really  ?— Well,  we  were  sitting  beside  the  mill 
one  Sunday  evening  after  service  ;  for  we  always  had  a  walk 


The  Foundling  Re-found, 


5  7 


before  going  home  from  church.  You  would  hardly  think  it 
now,  but  after  preaching  he  was  then  always  depressed,  and  the 
more  eloquently  he  had  spoken,  the  more,  he  felt  as  if  he  had 
Ynade  an  utter  failure.  At  first  I  thought  it  came  only  from 
fatigue,  and  wanted  him  to  go  home  and  rest ;  but  he  would 
say  he  liked  nature  to  come  before  supper,  for  nature  restored 
him  by  telling  him  that  it  was  not  of  the  slightest  consequence 
if  he  had  failed,  whereas  his  supper  only  made  him  feel  that  he 
would  do  better  next  time.  Well,  that  night,  you  will  easily 
believe  he  startled  me  when  he  said,  after  sitting  for  some  time 
silent,  ‘  Ethel,  if  that  yellow-hammer  were  to  drop  down  dead 
now,  and  God  not  care,  God  would  not  be  God  any  longer.* 
Doubtless  I  showed  myself  something  between  puzzled  and 
shocked,  for  he  proceeded  with  some  haste  to  explain  to  me 
how  what  he  had  said  was  true.  ‘  Whatever  belongs  to  God  is 
essential  to  God,’  he  said.  ‘  He  is  one  pure,  clean  essence  of 
being,  to  use  our  poor  words  to  describe  the  indescribable. 
Nothing  hangs  about  him  that  does  not  belong  to  him — 
that  he  could  part  with  and  be  nothing  the  worse.  Still  less 
is  there  anything  he  could  part  with  and  be  the  worse.  What¬ 
ever  belongs  to  him  is  of  his  own  kind,  is  part  of  himself,  so 
to  speak.  Therefore  there  is  nothing  indifferent  to  his  character 
to  be  found  in  him ;  and  therefore  when  our  Lord  says  not  a 
sparrow  falls  to  the  ground  without  our  Father,  that,  being  a 
fact  with  regard  to  God,  must  bean  essential  fact — one,  namely, 
without  which  he  could  be  no  God.’  I  understood  him,  I 
thought ;  but  many  a  time  since,  when  a  fresh  light  has  broken 
in  upon  me,  I  have  thought  I  understood  him  then  only  for  the 
first  time.  I  told  him  so  once,  and  he  said  he  thought  that 
would  be  the  way  for  ever  with  all  truth — we  should  never  get 
to  the  bottom  of  any  truth,  because  it  was  a  vital  portion  of  the 
all  of  truth,  which  is  God.” 

I  had  never  heard  so  much  philosophy  from  my  mother  be¬ 
fore.  I  believe  she  was  led  into  it  by  her  fear  of  the  effect  our 
anxiety  about  the  child  might  have  upon  us  :  with  what  had 
•uuieted  her  heart  in  the  old  time  she  sought  now  to  quiet  ours, 


58 


The  Vicars  Daughter . 

helping  us  to  trust  in  the  great  love  that  never  ceases  to  watch. 
And  she  did  make  us  quiet.  But  the  time  glided  so  slowly  past 
that  it  seemed  immovable. 

When  twelve  struck,  we  heard  in  the  stillness  every  clock  in 
the  house,  and  it  seemed  as  if  they  would  never  have  done. 
My  mother  left  the  room  and  came  back  with  three  shawls, 
with  which,  having  first  laid  Harry  on  the  rug,  she  covered  the 
boys,  and  Dora,  who  also  was  by  this  time  fast  asleep,  curled 
up  at  Connie’s  feet. 

Still  the  time  went  on,  and  there  was  no  sound  of  horses,  or 
anything  to  break  the  silence,  except  the  faint  murmur  which 
now  and  then  the  trees  will  make  in  the  quietest  night,  as  if 
they  were  dreaming,  and  talked  in  their  sleep ;  for  the  motion 
does  not  seem  to  pass  beyond  them,  but  to  swell  up  and  die 
again  in  the  heart  of  them.  This  and  the  occasional  cry  of 
an  owl  was  all  that  broke  the  silent  flow  of  the  undivided 
moments — glacier- like  flowing  none  can  tell  how.  We  seldom 
spoke,  and  at  length  the  house  within  seemed  possessed  by  the 
silence  from  without;  but  we  were  all  ear — one  hungry  ear, 
whose  famine  was  silence — listening  intently. 

We  were  not  so  far  from  the  high  road  but  that  on  a  night 
like  this  the  penetrating  sound  of  a  horse’s  hoofs  might  reach 
us.  Hence,  when  my  mother,  who  was  keener  of  hearing  than 
any  of  her  daughters,  at  length  started  up,  saying,  “  I  hear 
them !  They’re  coming !  ”  the  doubt  remained  whether  it 
might  not  be  the  sound  of  some  night-traveller  hurrying  along 
that  high  road  that  she  had  heard.  But  when  walso  heard  the 
sound  of  horses,  we  knew  they  must  belong  to  our  company  ; 
for  except  the  riders  were  within  the  gates,  their  noises  could 
not  have  come  nearer  to  the  house.  My  mother  hurried  down 
to  the  hall.  I  would  have  stayed  with  Connie  ;  but  she  begged 
me  to  go  too,  and  come  back  as  soon  as  I  knew  the  result ;  so 
I  followed  my  mother.  As  I  descended  the  stairs,  notwith¬ 
standing  my  anxiety,  I  could  not  help  seeing  what  a  picture  lay 
before  me,  for  I  had  learned  already  to  regard  things  from  the 
picturesque  point  of  view— the  dim  light  of  the  low-burning 


59 


The  Foundling  Re-found. 

lamp  on  the  forward-bent  heads  of  the  listening,  anxious  group 
of  women,  my  mother  at  the  open  door  with  the  housekeeper 
and  her  maid,  and  the  men-servants  visible  through  the  door  in 
the  moonlight  beyond. 

The  first  news  that  reached  me  was  my  father’s  shout  the 
moment  he  rounded  the  sweep  that  brought  him  in  sight  of  the 
house. 

“  All  right  !  Here  she  is  !  ”  he  cried. 

And  ere  I  could  reach  the  stair  to  run  up  to  Connie,  Wagtail 
was  jumping  upon  me  and  barking  furiously.  He  rushed  up 
before  me  with  the  scramble  of  twenty  feet,  licked  Connie's 
face  all  over  in  spite  of  her  efforts  at  self-defence,  then  rushed 
at  Uora  and  the  boys  one  after  the  other,  and  woke  them  all 
up.  He  was  satisfied  enough  with  himself  now  ;  his  tail  was 
doing  the  wagging  of  forty  ;  there  was  no  tucking  of  it  away 
now— no  drooping  of  the  head  in  mute  confession  of  conscious 
worthlessness  ;  he  was  a  dog  self-satisfied  because  his  master 
was  well  pleased  with  him. 

But  here  I  am  talking  about  the  dog,  and  forgetting  what  was 
going  on  below. 

My  father  cantered  up  to  the  door,  followed  by  the  two  men. 
My  mother  hurried  to  meet  him,  and  then  only  saw  the  little 
lost  lamb  asleep  in  his  bosom.  He  gave  her  up,  and  my 
mother  ran  in  with  her,  while  he  dismounted,  and  walked  merrily 
but  wearily  up  the  stair  after  her.  The  first  thing  he  did  was 
to  quiet  the  dog  ;  the  next,  to  sit  down  beside  Connie ;  the 
third,  to  say,  “  Thank  God !  ”  and  the  next,  £<  God  bless  Wag¬ 
tail  !”  My  mother  was  already  undressing  the  little  darling, 
and  her  maid  was  gone  to  fetch  her  night  things.  Tumbled 
hither  and  thither,  she  did  not  wake,  but  was  carried  off  stone- 
sleeping  to  her  crib. 

Then  my  father — for  whom  some  supper,  of  which  he  was  in 
great  need,  had  been  brought — as  soon  as  he  had  had  a  glass 
of  wine  and  a  mouthful  or  two  of  cold  chicken,  began  to  tell  us 
the  whole  story. 


Co 


The  Vicar's  Daughter. 


CHAPTER  X. 

WAGTAIL  COMES  TO  HONOUR. 

As  they  rode  out  of  the  gate,  one  of  the  men,  a  trustworthy 
man,  who  cared  for  his  horses  like  his  children,  and  knew  all 
their  individualities  as  few  men  know  those  of  their  children, 
rode  up  alongside  of  my  father,  and  told  him  that  there  was 
an  encampment  of  gipsies  on  the  moor  about  five  miles  away, 
just  over  Gorman  Slope,  remarking  that,  if  the  woman  had 
taken  the  child,  and  belonged  to  them,  she  would  certainly 
carry  her  thither.  My  father  thought,  in  the  absence  of  other 
indication,  they  ought  to  follow  the  suggestion,  and  told  Burton 
to  guide  them  to  the  place  as  rapidly  as  possible.  After  half 
an  hour’s  sharp  riding,  they  came  in  view  of  the  camp — or 
rather  of  a  rising  ground  behind  which  it  lay  in  the  hollow. 
The  other  servant  was  an  old  man  who  had  been  whipper-in 
to  a  baronet  in  the  next  countv,  and  knew  as  much  of  the 
ways  of  wild  animals  as  Burton-  did  of  those  of  his  horses  :  it 
was  his  turn  now  to  address  my  father,  who  had  halted  for  a 
moment  to  think  what  ought  to  be  done  next. 

“  She  can’t  well  have  got  here  before  us,  sir,  with  that  child 
to  carry.  But  it’s  wonderful  what  the  likes  of  her  can  do.  I 
think  I  had  better  have  a  peep  over  the  brow  first.  She  may 
be  there  already  or  she  may  not ;  but  if  we  find  out,  we  shall 
know  better  what  to  do.” 

“  I'll  go  with  you,”  said  my  father. 

“  No,  sir ;  excuse  me  ;  that  won’t  do.  You  can’t  creep  like 
a  sarpent.  I  can.  They’ll  never  know  I’m  a  stalking  of  them. 
No  more  you  couldn’t  show  fight  if  need  was,  you  know,  sir.” 

“  How  did  you  find  that  out,  Sim  ?  ”  asked  my  father,  a 
little  amused  notwithstanding  the  weight  at  his  heart. 

“  Why,  sir,  they  do  say  a  clergyman  mustn’t  show  fight.” 

“  Who  told  you  that,  Sim  ?  ”  he  persisted. 


Wagtail  comes  to  Honour ,  6 1 

“Well,  I  can’t  say,  sir.  Only  it  wouldn’t  be  respectable — 
would  it,  sir  ?  ” 

“  There’s  nothing  respectable  but  what’s  right,  Sim,  and 
what’s  right  always  is  respectable,  though  it  mayn’t  look  so  one 

bit.” 

“  Suppose  you  was  to  get  a  black  eye,  sir  ?  ” 

“  Did  you  ever  hear  of  the  martyrs,  Sim  ?  ” 

“Yes,  sir.  I’ve  heerd  you  talk  on  ’em  in  the  pulpit,  sir. 9 

“  Well,  they  didn’t  get  black  eyes  only — they  got  black  all 
over,  you  know — burnt  black ;  and  what  for,  do  you  think, 
now  ?  ” 

“  Don’t  know,  sir,  except  it  was  for  doing  right.” 

“  That’s  just  it.  Was  it  any  disgrace  to  them  ?  ” 

“  No,  sure,  sir.” 

“  Well,  if  I  were  to  get  a  black  eye  for  the  sake  of  the  child, 
would  that  be  any  disgrace  to  me,  Sim  ?  ” 

“  None  that  I  knows  on,  sir.  Only  it’d  look  bad.” 

“  Yes,  no  doubt.  People  might  think  I  had  got  into  a  row 
at  the  Griffin.  And  yet  I  shouldn’t  be  ashamed  of  it.  I 
should  count  my  black  eye  the  more  respectable  of  the  two. 
I  should  also  regard  the  evil  judgment  much  as  another  black 
eye,  and  wait  till  they  both  came  round  again.  Lead  on, 
Sim.” 

They  left  their  horses  with  Burton,  and  went  towards  the 
camp.  But  when  they  reached  the  slope  behind  which  it  lay, 
much  to  Sim’s  discomfiture,  my  father,  instead  of  lying  down 
at  the  foot  of  it,  as  he  expected,  and  creeping  up  the  side  of 
it,  after  the  doom  of  the  serpent,  walked  right  up  over  the 
brow,  and  straight  into  the  camp,  followed  by  Wagtail.  There 
was  nothing  going  on — neither  tinkering  nor  cooking;  all 
seemed  asleep  ;  but  presently  out  of  two  or  three  of  the  tents, 
the  dingy  squalor  of  which  no  moonshine  could  silver  over, 
came  three  or  four  men,  half  undressed,  who  demanded  of  my 
father,  in  no  gentle  tones,  what  he  wanted  there. 

“  I’ll  tell  you  all  about  it,”  he  answered.  “  I’m  the  parson 
of  this  parish,  and  therefore  you’re  my  own  people,  you  see.” 


62 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter . 

“  We  don’t  go  to  your  church,  parson,”  said  one  of  them. 

“I  don’t  care;  you’re  my  own  people  for  all  that,  and  1 
want  your  help.” 

“Well,  what’s  the  matter?  Whose  cow’s  dead?”  said  the 
same  man. 

“This  evening,”  returned  my  father,  “one  of  my  children  is 
missing  ;  and  a  woman  who  might  be  one  of  your  clan — mind, 
Isay  might  be ;  I  don’t  know,  and  I  mean  no  offence — but 
such  a  woman  was  seen  about  the  place.  All  I  want  is  the 
child,  and  if  I  don’t  find  her,  I  shall  have  to  raise  the  county. 
I  should  be  very  sorry  to  disturb  you  ;  but  I’m  afraid,  in  that 
case,  whether  the  woman  be  one  of  you  or  not,  the  place  will 
be  too  hot  for  you.  I’m  no  enemy  to  honest  gipsies,  but  you 
know  there  is  a  set  of  tramps  that  call  themselves  gipsies  who 
are  nothing  of  the  sort — only  thieves.  Tell  me  what  I  had 
better  do  to  find  my  child.  You  know  all  about  such  things.” 

The  men  turned  to  each  other,  and  began  talking  in  under¬ 
tones,  and  in  a  language  of  which  what  my  father  heard  he 
could  not  understand.  At  length  the  spokesman  of  the  party 
addressed  him  again. 

“  We’ll  give  you  our  word,  sir,  if  that  will  satisfy  you,”  he 
said,  more  respectfully  than  he  had  spoken  before,  “  to  send 
the  child  home  directly  if  any  one  should  bring  her  to  our 
camp.  That’s  all  we  can  say.” 

My  father  saw  that  his  best  chance  lay  in  accepting  the 
offer. 

“  Thank  you,”  he  said.  “  Perhaps  I  may  have  an  oppor* 
tunity  of  serving  you  some  day.” 

They  in  their  turn  thanked  him  politely  enough,  and  my 
father  and  Sim  left  the  camp. 

Upon  this  side  the  moor  was  skirted  by  a  plantation  which 
had  been  gradually  creeping  up  the  hill  from  the  more  sheltered 
hollow.  It  was  here  bordered  by  a  deep  trench,  the  bottom 
of  which  was  full  of  young  firs.  Through  the  plantation  there 
was  a  succession  of  green  rides,  by  which  the  outskirts  of  my 
father’s  property  could  he  reached.  But,  the  moon  being  now 


s 


Wagtail  comes  to  Honour .  63 

up,  my  father  resolved  to  cross  the  trench,  and  halt  foi  a  time, 
watching  the  moor  from  the  shelter  of  the  firs,  on  the  chance 
of  the  woman’s  making  her  appearance;  for  if  she  belonged  to 
the  camp,  she  would  most  probably  approach  it  from  the 
plantation,  and  might  be  overtaken  before  she  could  cross  the 
moor  to  reach  it. 

They  had  lain  ensconced  in  the  firs  for  about  half  an  hour, 
when  suddenly,  without  any  warning,  Wagtail  rushed  into  the 
underwood  and  vanished.  They  listened  with  all  their  ears, 
and  in  a  few  moments  heard  his  joyous  bark,  followed  instantly 
however  by  a  howl  of  pain  ;  and  before  they  had  got  many 
yards  in  pursuit,  he  came  cowering  to  my  father’s  feet,  who, 
patting  his  side,  found  it  bleeding.  He  bound  his  handker¬ 
chief  round  him,  and  fastening  the  lash  of  Sim’s  whip  to  his 
collar  that  he  might  not  go  too  fast  for  them,  told  him  to  find 
Theodora.  Instantly  he  pulled  away  through  the  brushwood, 
giving  a  little  yelp  now  and  then  as  the  stiff  remnant  of  some 
broken  twig  or  stem  hurt  his  wounded  side. 

Before  wre  reached  the  spot  for  which  he  was  making,  how¬ 
ever,  my  father  heard  a  rustling,  nearer  to  the  outskirts  of  the 
wood,  and  the  same  moment  Wagtail  turned  and  tugged 
fiercely  in  that  direction.  The  figure  of  a  woman  rose  up 
against  the  sky,  and  began  to  run  for  the  open  space  beyond. 
Wagtail  and  my  father  pursued  at  speed,  my  father  crying  out 
that  if  she  did  not  stop,  he  would  loose  the  dog  on  her.  She 
paid  no  heed  but  ran  on. 

“  Mount  and  head  her,  Sim.  Mount,  Burton.  Ride  over 
everything  !  ”  cried  my  father,  as  he  slipped  Wagtail,  who  shot 
through  the  underwood  like  a  bird,  just  as  she  reached  the 
trench,  and  in  an  instant  had  her  by  the  gown.  My  father 
saw  something  gleam  in  the  moonlight,  and  again  a  howl  broke 
from  Wagtail,  who  was  evidently  once  more  wounded.  But 
he  held  on.  And  now  the  horsemen  having  crossed  the  trench, 
were  approaching  her  in  front,  and  my  father  was  hard  upon 
her  behind.  She  gave  a  peculiar  cry,  half  a  shriek,  and  half  a 
howl,  clasped  the  child  to  her  bosom,  and  st  od  rooted  like  a 


64  The  Vicar  s  Daughter . 

tree,  evidently  in  the  hope  that  her  friends,  hearing  her  signal, 
would  ccme  to  her  rescue.  But  it  was  too  late.  My  father 
rushed  upon  her  the  instant  she  cried  out.  The  dog  was  hold¬ 
ing  her  by  the  poor  ragged  skirt,  and  the  horses  were  reined 
snorting  on  the  bank  above  her.  She  heaved  up  the  child 
over  her  head,  but  whether  in  appeal  to  heaven,  or  about  to 
dash  her  to  the  earth  in  the  rage  of  frustration,  she  was  not 
allowed  time  to  show ;  for  my  father  caught  both  her  uplifted 
arms  with  his,  so  that  she  could  not  lower  them,  and  Burton, 
having  flung  himself  from  his  horse  and  come  behind  her, 
easily  took  Theodora  from  them,  for  from  their  position  they 
were  almost  powerless.  Then  my  father  called  off  Wagtail, 
and  the  poor  creature  sank  down  in  the  bottom  of  the  trench 
amongst  the  young  firs  without  a  sound,  and  there  lay.  My 
father  went  up  to  her,  but  she  only  stared  at  him  with  big 
blank  black  eyes,  and  such  a  lost  look  on  her  young,  handsome, 
yet  gaunt  face,  as  almost  convinced  him  she  was  the  mother  of 
the  child.  But  whatever  might  be  her  rights,  she  could  not 
be  allowed  to  recover  possession,  without  those  who  had  saved 
and  tended  the  child  having  a  word  in  the  matter  of  her  fate. 

As  he  was  thinking  what  he  could  say  to  her,  Sim’s  voice 
reached  his  ear. 

“  They’re  coming  over  the  brow,  sir — five  or  six  from  the 
camp.  We’d  better  be  off.” 

“  The  child  is  safe,”  he  said,  as  he  turned  to  leave  her. 

'‘From  me ,”  she  rejoined,  in  a  pitiful  tone;  and  this  am¬ 
biguous  utterance  was  all  that  fell  from  her. 

My  father  mounted  hurriedly,  took  the  child  from  Burton, 
and  rode  away,  followed  by  the  two  men  and  Wagtail.  Through 
the  green  rides  ihty  galloped  in  the  moonlight,  and  were  soon 
beyond  all  danger  of  pursuit.  When  they  slackened  pace,  my 
father  instruct*-  d  Sim  to  find  out  all  he  could  about  the  gipsies 
— if  possible  to  learn  their  names  and  to  what  tribe  or  com¬ 
munity  they  belonged.  Sim  promised  to  do  what  was  in  his 
power,  but  said  he  did  not  expect  much  success. 

The  children  had  listened  to  the  stcry  wideawake.  Wagtail 


s 


A  Stupid  Chapter .  65 

was  lying  at  my  father’s  feet,  licking  his  wounds,  which  were 
not  very  serious,  and  had  stopped  bleeding. 

“  It’s  all  your  doing,  Wagtail,”  said  Harry,  patting  the  dog. 

“  I  think  he  deserves  to  be  called  Mr.  Wagtail,”  said 
Charley. 

And  from  that  day  he  was  no  more  called  ba*re  Wagtail,  but 
Mr.  Wagtail — much  to  the  amusement  of  visitors,  who,  hearing 
the  name  gravely  uttered,  as  it  soon  came  to  be,  saw  the  owner 
of  it  approach  on  all  fours,  with  a  tireless  pendulum  in  his 
rear. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

A  STUPID  CHAPTER. 

Before  proceeding  with  my  own  story,  I  must  mention  that 
my  father  took  every  means  in  his  power  to  find  out  some¬ 
thing  about  the  woman  and  the  gang  of  gipsies  to  which  she 
appeared  to  belong.  I  believe  he  had  no  definite  end  in  view 
further  than  the  desire  to  be  able  at  some  future  time  to  enter 
into  such  relations  with  her,  for  her  own  and  her  daughter’s  sake 
—  if  indeed  Theodora  were  her  daughter — as  might  be  possi¬ 
ble.  But  the  very  next  day,  he  found  that  they  had  already 
vanished  from  the  place ;  and  all  the  inquiries  he  set  on  foot, 
by  means  of  friends  and  through  the  country  constabulary, 
were  of  no  avail.  I  believe  he  was  dissatisfied  with  himself  in 
what  had  occurred,  thinking  he  ought  to  have  laid  himself 
out  at  the  time  to  discover  whether  she  was  indeed  the  mother, 
and,  in  that  case,  to  do  for  her  what  he  could.  Probably, 
had  he  done  so,  he  would  only  have  heaped  difficulty  upon 
difficulty;  but  as  it  was,  if  he  was  saved  from  trouble,  he  was 
not  delivered  from  uneasiness.  Clearly,  however,  the  child 
must  not  be  exposed  to  the  danger  of  the  repetition  of  the 
attempt;  and  the  whole  household  was  now  so  fully  alive  to 

F 


66 


The  Vicar's  Daughter . 


the  necessity  of  not  losing  sight  of  her  for  a  moment,  that  her 
danger  was  far  less  than  it  had  been  at  any  time  before. 

I  continued  at  the  Hall  for  six  weeks,  during  which  my 
husband  came  several  times  to  see  me  ;  and  at  the  close  of  that 
period  took  me  back  with  him  to  my  dear  little  home.  The 
rooms,  all  but  the  study,  looked  very  small  after  those  I  had  left  ; 
but  I  felt  notwithstanding  that  the  place  was  my  home.  I  was  at 
first  a  little  ashamed  of  the  feeling;  for  why  should  I  be  any¬ 
where  more  at  home  than  in  the  house  of  such  parents  as 
mine?  But  I  presume  there  is  a  certain  amount  of  the  queenly 
element  in  every  woman,  so  that  she  cannot  feel  perfectly  at  . 
ease  without  something  to  govern — however  small,  and  how¬ 
ever  troublesome  her  queendom  may  be.  At  my  father’s,  I 
had  every  ministration  possible,  and  all  comforts  in  profusion  ; 
but  I  had  no  responsibilities,  and  no  rule ;  so  that  sometimes 
I  could  not  help  feeling  as  if  I  was  idle,  although  I  knew  I 
was  not  to  blame.  Besides,  I  could  not  be  at  all  sure  that  my 
big  bear  was  properly  attended  to ;  and  the  knowledge  that  he 
was  the  most  independent  of  comforts  of  all  the  men  I  had 
ever  come  into  any  relation  with,  made  me  only  feel  the  more 
anxious  that  he  should  not  be  left  to  his  own  neglect.  For, 
although  my  father,  for  instance,  was  ready  to  part  with  any¬ 
thing,  even  to  a  favourite  volume,  if  the  good  reason  of  another’s 
need  showed  itself,  he  was  not  at  all  indifferent  in  his  own 
person  to  being  comfortable.  One  with  his  intense  power  of 
enjoying  the  gentleness  of  the  universe  could  not  be  so. 
Hence  it  was  always  easy  to  make  him  a  little  present,  whereas 
I  have  still  to  rack  my  brains  for  weeks  before  my  bear’s 
birthday  comes  round,  to  think  of  something  that  will  in  itself 
have  a  chance  of  giving  him  pleasure.  Of  course  it  would  be 
comparatively  easy  if  I  had  plenty  of  money  to  spare,  and 
hadn’t  “  to  muddle  it  all  away  ”  in  paying  butchers  and  bakers, 
and  such  like  people. 

So  home  I  went,  to  be  queen  again.  Friends  came  to  see 
me,  but  I  returned  few  of  their  calls.  I  like  best  to  sit  in  my 
bedroom.  I  would  have  preferred  sitting  in  my  wonderful 


I’ll  tell  you  all  about  it.  I’m  the  parson  of  the  parish. 


A  Stupid  Chapter .  6/ 

little  room  off  the  study,  and  I  tried  that  first;  but  the  same 
morning  somebody  called  on  Percivale,  and  straightway  I  felt 
myself  a  prisoner.  The  moment  I  heard  the  strange  voice 
through  the  door,  I  wanted  to  get  out,  and  could  not,  of 
course.  Such  a  risk  1  would  not  run  again.  And  when  Per¬ 
civale  asked  me  the  next  day  if  I  would  not  go  down  with 
r  him,  I  told  him  I  could  not  bear  the  feeling  of  confinement  it 
gave  me. 

“  I  did  mean,”  he  said,  “  to  have  had  a  door  made  into  the 
garden  for  you ;  and  I  consulted  an  architect  friend  on  the 
subject;  but  he  soon  satisfied  me  it  would  make  the  room 
much  too  cold  for  you,  and  so  I  was  compelled  to  give  up  the 
thought.” 

“  You  dear  !  ”  I  said.  That  was  all,  but  it  was  enough  for 
Percivale,  who  never  bothered  me,  as  I  have  heard  of  husbands 
doing,  for  demonstrations  either  of  gratitude  or  affection. 
Such  must  be  of  the  mole-eyed  sort,  who  can  only  read  large 
print.  So  I  betook  myself  to  my  chamber,  and  there  sat  and 
worked — for  I  did  a  good  deal  of  needlework  now,  although  I 
had  never  been  fond  of  it  as  a  girl.  The  constant  recurrence 
of  similar  motions  of  the  fingers,  one  stitch  just  the  same  as 
another  in  countless  repetition,  varied  only  by  the  bother  when 
the  thread  grew  short  and  would  slip  out  of  the  eye  of  the 
needle,  and  yet  not  short  enough  to  be  exchanged  with  still 
more  bother  for  one  too  long,  had  been  so  wearisome  to  me 
in  former  days,  that  I  spent  half  my  pocket-money  in  getting 
the  needlework  done  for  me  which  my  mother  and  sister  did 
for  themselves.  For  this  my  father  praised  me,  and  my 
mother  tried  to  scold  me  and  couldn’t.  But  now  it  was  all  so 
different !  Instead  of  toiling  at  plain  stitching  and  hemming 
and  sewing,  I  seemed  to  be  working  a  bit  of  lovely  tapestry  all 
the  time — so  many  thoughts  and  so  many  pictures  went  weav¬ 
ing  themselves  into  the  work  ;  while  every  little  bit  finished 
appeared  so  much  of  the  labour  of  the  universe  actually  done 
- — accomplished,  ended  :  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  began 
to  feel  myself  of  consequence  enough  to  be  taken  care  of.  I 

v  2 


68 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter. 

remember  once  laying  down  the  little — what  I  was  working  at 
—  but  I  am  growing  too  communicative  and  important. 

My  father  used  often  to  say  that  the  commonest  things  in  the 
world  were  the  loveliest — sky  and  water  and  grass  and  such ;  now 
I  found  that  the  commonest  feelings  of  humanity — for  what 
feelings  could  be  commoner  than  those  which  now  made  me 
blessed  amongst  women  ? — are  those  that  are  fullest  of  the 
divine.  Surely  this  looks  as  if  there  were  a  God  of  the  whole 
earth — as  if  the  world  existed  in  the  very  foundations  of  its 
history  and  continuance  by  the  immediate  thought  of  a  causing 
thought.  For,  simply  because  the  life  of  the  world  was  mov¬ 
ing  on  towards  its  unseen  goal,  and  I  knew  it,  and  had  a  help¬ 
less  share  in  it,  I  felt  as  if  God  was  with  me.  I  do  not  say  I 
always  felt  like  this — far  from  it ;  there  were  times  when  life 
itself  seemed  vanishing  in  an  abyss  of  nothingness,  when  all  my 
consciousness  consisted  in  this — that  I  knew  I  was  not ,  and 
when  I  could  not  believe  that  I  should  ever  be  restored  to  the 
well-being  of  existence.  The  worst  of  it  was  that,  in  such 
moods,  it  seemed  as  if  I  had  hitherto  been  deluding  myself 
with  rainbow  fancies  as  often  as  I  had  been  aware  of  blessed¬ 
ness,  as  if  there  was  in  fact  no  wine  of  life  apart  from  its  effer¬ 
vescence.  But  when  one  day  I  told  Percivale — not  while  I 
was  thus  oppressed,  for  then  I  could  not  speak,  but  in  a 
happier  moment  whose  happiness  I  mistrusted — something  of 
what  I  felt,  he  said  one  thing  which  has  comforted  me  ever 
since  in  such  circumstances: 

“  Don't  grumble  at  the  poverty,  darling,  by  which  another  is 
made  rich.” 

I  confess  I  did  not  see  all  at  once  what  he  meant,  but  I  did 
after  thinking  over  it  for  a  while.  And  if  I  have  learned  any 
valuable  lesson  in  my  life,  it  is  this,  that  no  one’s  feelings  are 
a  measure  of  eternal  facts. 

The  winter  passed  slowly  away — fog,  rain,  frost,  snow,  thaw, 
succeeding  one  another  in  all  the  seeming  disorder  of  the 
season.  A  good  many  things  happened,  I  believe ;  but  I  don’t 
remember  any  of  them.  My  mother  wrote  offering  me  Dora 


A  Stupid  Chapter.  69 

for  a  companion,  but  somehow  I  preferred  being  without  her. 
One  great  comfort  was  good  news  about  Connie,  who  was 
getting  on  famously.  But  even  this  moved  rue  so  little  that  I 
began  to  think  I  was  turning  into  a  crab,  utterly  encased  in 
the  shell  of  my  own  selfishness.  The  thought  made  me  cry. 
The  fact  that  I  could  cry  consoled  me,  for  how  could  I  be 
heartless  so  long  as  I  could  cry?  But  then  came  the  thought 
it  was  for  myself,  my  own  hard-heartedness  I  was  crying — not 
certainly  for  joy  that  Connie  was  getting  better.  “  At  least, 
however,”  I  said  to  myself,  “  I  am  not  content  to  be  selfish. 
I  am  a  little  troubled  that  I  am  not  good.”  And  then  I  tried 
to  look  up,  and  got  my  needlework,  which  always  did  me  good 
by  helping  me  to  reflect.  It  is,  I  can’t  help  thinking,  a  great 
pity  that  needlework  is  going  so  much  out  of  fashion,  for  it 
tends  more  to  make  a  woman — one  who  thinks,  that  is — 
acquainted  with  herself  than  all  the  sermons  she  is  ever  likely 
to  hear. 

My  father  came  to  see  me  several  times,  and  was  all  himself 
to  me ;  but  I  could  not  feel  quite  comfortable  with  him — I 
don’t  in  the  least  know  why.  I  am  afraid,  much  afraid,  it 
indicates  something  very  wrong  in  me  somewhere.  But  he 
seemed  to  understand  me  ;  and  always,  the  moment  he  left 
me,  the  tide  of  confidence  began  to  flow  afresh  in  the  ocean 
that  lay  about  the  little  island  of  my  troubles.  Then  I  knew 
he  was  my  own  father — something  that  even  my  husband 
could  not  be,  and  would  not  wish  to  be  to  me. 

In  the  month  of  March  my  mother  came  to  see  me,  and 
that  was  all  pleasure.  My  father  did  not  always  see  when  I 
was  not  able  to  listen  to  him,  though  he  was  most  considerate 
when  he  did;  but  my  mother — why,  to  be  with  her  was  like 
being  with  one’s  own — mother ,  I  was  actually  going  to  write. 
There  is  nothing  better  than  that  when  a  woman  is  in  such 
trouble,  except  it  be — what  my  father  knows  more  about  than 
I  do  :  I  wish  I  did  know  all  about  it. 

She  brought  with  her  a  young  woman  to  take  the  place  of 
cook,  or  rather  general  servant,  in  our  little  household.  She 


70 


The  Vicar's  Daughter. 

had  been  kitchen-maid  in  a  small  family  of  my  mother’s 
acquaintance,  and  had  a  good  character  for  honesty  and  plain 
cooking.  Percivale’s  more  experienced  ear  soon  discovered 
that  she  was  Irish.  This  fact  had  not  been  represented  to  my 
mother,  for  the  girl  had  been  in  England  from  childhood,  and 
her  mistress  seemed  either  not  have  known  it,  or  not  to  have 
thought  of  mentioning  it.  Certainly  my  mother  was  far  too 
just  to  have  allowed  it  to  influence  her  choice,  notwithstanding 
the  prejudices  against  Irishwomen  in  English  families — preju¬ 
dices  not  without  a  general  foundation  in  reason.  For  my 
part,  I  should  have  been  perfectly  satisfied  with  my  mother’s 
choice,  even  if  I  had  not  been  so  indifferent  at  the  time  to  all 

m 

that  was  going  on  in  the  lower  regions  of  the  house.  But 
while  my  mother  was  there,  I  knew  well  enough  that  nothing 
could  go  wrong,  and  my  housekeeping  mind  had  never  been 
so  much  at  ease  since  we  were  married.  It  was  very  delight¬ 
ful  not  to  be  accountable ;  and  for  the  present  I  felt  exonerated 
from  all  responsibilities. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

AN  INTRODUCTION. 

I  woke  one  morning  after  a  sound  sleep — not  so  sound 
however  but  that  I  had  been  dreaming,  and  that  when  I  awoke 
I  could  recall  my  dream.  It  was  a  very  odd  one.  I  thought 
I  was  a  hen  strutting  about  amongst  ricks  of  corn,  picking 
here  and  scratching  there,  followed  by  a  whole  brood  of 
chickens,  towards  which  I  felt  exceedingly  benevolent  and 
attentive.  Suddenly  I  heard  the  scream  of  a  hawk  in  the  air 
above  me,  and  instantly  gave  the  proper  cry  to  fetch  the  little 
creatures  under  my  wings.  They  came  scurrying  to  me  as  fast 
as  their  legs  could  carry  them — all  but  one,  which  wouldn’t 
mind  my  cry,  although  I  kept  repeating  it  again  and  again. 


An  Introduction . 


7i 


Meantime  the  hawk  kept  screaming,  and  I  felt  as  if  I  didn’t 
care  for  any  of  those  that  were  safe  under  my  wings,  but  only 
for  the  solitary  creature  that  kept  pecking  away  as  if  nothing 
was  the  matter.  About  it  I  grew  so  terribly  anxious  that  at 
length  I  woke  with  a  cry  of  misery  and  terror. 

The  moment  I  opened  my  eyes  there  was  my  mother,  stand¬ 
ing  beside  me.  The  room  was  so  dark  that  I  thought  for  a 
moment  what  a  fog  there  must  be;  but  the  next  I  forgot  every¬ 
thing  at  hearing  a  little  cry,  which  I  verily  believe  in  my  stupid 
dream  I  had  taken  for  the  voice  of  the  hawk,  whereas  it  was 
the  cry  of  my  first  and  only  chicken,  which  I  had  not  yet 
seen,  but  which  my  mother  now  held  in  her  grandmotherly 
arms,  ready  to  hand  her  to  me.  I  dared  not  speak,  for  I 
felt  very  weak,  and  was  afraid  of  crying  from  delight.  I 
looked  in  my  mother’s  face,  and  she  folded  back  the  clothes, 
and  laid  the  baby  down  beside  me,  with  its  little  head  resting 
on  my  arm. 

“  Draw  back  the  curtain  a  little  bit,  mother  dear,”  I  whis¬ 
pered,  “  and  let  me  see  what  it  is  like.” 

I  believe  I  said  it,  for  I  was  not  quite  a  mother  yet.  My 
mother  did  as  I  requested  ;  a  ray  of  clear  spring  light  fell  upon 
the  face  of  the  little  white  thing  by  my  side — for  white  she  was, 
though  most  babies  are  red — and  if  I  dared  not  speak  before,  I 
couldn’t  now.  My  mother  went  away  again,  and  sat  down  by 
the  fireside,  leaving  me  with  my  baby.  Never  shall  I  forget  the 
unutterable  content  of  that  hour.  It  was  not  gladness,  nor  was 
it  thankfulness  that  filled  my  heart,  but  a  certain  absolute  con¬ 
tentment — just  on  the  point,  but  for  my  want  of  strength,  of 
blossoming  into  unspeakable  gladness  and  thankfulness.  Some¬ 
how  too  there  was  mingled  with  it  a  sense  of  dignity,  as  if  I  had 
vindicated  for  myself  a  right  to  a  part  in  the  creation,  for  was  I 
not  proved  at  least  a  link  in  the  marvellous  chain  of  existence, 
in  carrying  on  the  designs  of  the  great  Maker?  Not  that  the 
thought  was  there — only „the  feeling  which  afterwards  found  the 
thought  in  order  to  account  for  its  own  being.  Besides,  the  state 
of  perfect  repose  after  what  had  passed  was  in  itself  bliss ;  the 


72 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter. 

very  sense  of  weakness  was  delightful,  for  I  had  earned  the  light 
to  be  weak,  to  rest  as  much  as  I  pleased,  to  be  important  and 
to  be  congratulated. 

Somehow  I  had  got  through.  The  trouble  lay  behind  me; 
and  here,  for  the  sake  of  any  who  will  read  my  poor  words, 
I  record  the  conviction,  that,  in  one  way  or  other,  special 
individual  help  is  given  to  every  creature  to  endure  to  the 
end.  I  think  I  have  heard  my  father  say,  and  hitherto  it  has 
been  my  own  experience,  that  always  when  suffering,  whether 
mental  or  bodily,  approached  the  point  where  further  endurance 
appeared  impossible,  the  pulse  of  it  began  to  ebb,  and  a  lull 
ensued.  I  do  not  venture  to  found  any  general  assertion  upon 
this  :  I  only  state  it  as  a  fact  of  my  own  experience.  He  who 
does  not  allow  any  man  to  be  tempted  above  that  he  is  able 
to  bear,  doubtless  acts  in  the  same  way  in  all  kinds  of  trials. 

I  was  listening  to  the  gentle  talk  about  me  in  the  darkened 
room — not  listening,  indeed,  only  aware  that  loving  words  were 
spoken.  Whether  I  was  dozing  I  do  not  know,  but  something 
touched  my  lips.  I  did  not  start.  I  had  been  dreadfully  given 
to  starting  for  a  long  time — so  much  so  that  I  was  quite 
ashamed  sometimes,  for  I  would  even  cry  out— I  who  had 
always  been  so  sharp  on  feminine  affectations  before ;  but 
now  it  seemed  as  if  nothing  could  startle  me.  I  only  opened 
my  eyes — and  there  was  my  great  big  huge  bear  looking 
down  on  me  with  something  in  his  eyes  I  had  never  seen 
there  before.  But  even  his  presence  could  not  ripple  the  waters 
of  my  deep  rest.  I  gave  him  half  a  smile — I  knew  it  was  but 
half  a  smile,  but  I  thought  it  would  do — closed  my  eyes,  and 
sank  again — not  into  sleep,  but  into  that  same  blessed  repose. 
I  remember  wondering  if  I  should  feel  anything  like  that  for  the 
first  hour  or  two  after  I  was  dead.  May  there  not  one  day  be 
such  a  repose  for  all — only  the  heavenly  counterpart,  coming  of 
perfect  activity  instead  of  weary  success  ? 

This  was  but  the  beginning  of  endlessly  varied  pleasures.  I 
dare  say  the  mothers  would  let  me  go  on  for  a  good  while  in  this 
direction ;  perhaps  even  some  of  the  fathers  could  stand  a 


An  Introduction . 


73 


little  more  of  it ;  but  I  must  remember  that  if  anybody  reads 
this  at  all,  it  will  have  multitudes  of  readers  in  whom  the 
chord  which  could  alone  respond  to  such  experiences  hangs 
loose  over  the  sounding-board  of  their  being. 

By  slow  degrees  the  daylight,  the  light  of  work,  that  is,  began 
to  penetrate  me,  or  rather  to  rise  in  my  being  from  its  own 
hidden  sun.  First  I  began  to  wash  and  dress  my  baby  myself. 
One  who  has  not  tried  that  kind  of  amusement  cannot  know 
what  endless  pleasure  it  affords.  I  do  not  doubt  that  to  the 
paternal  spectator  it  appears  monotonous,  unproductive,  unpro¬ 
gressive  ;  but  then,  he  looking  upon  it  from  the  outside,  and 
regarding  the  process  with  a  speculative  compassion,  and  not 
with  sympathy,  cannot  know  the  communion  into  which  it 
brings  you  with  the  baby.  I  remember  well  enough  what  my 
father  has  written  about  it  in  the  Seaboard  Parish;  but  he  is  all 
wrong — I  mean  him  to  confess  that  before  this  is  printed :  if 
things  were  done  as  he  proposes,  the  tenderness  of  mothers 
would  be  far  less  developed,  and  the  moral  training  of  children 
would  be  postponed  to  an  indefinite  period.  There,  papa  ! 
there’s  something  in  your  own  style! 

Next  I  began  to  order  the  dinners  ;  and  the  very  day  on 
which  I  first  ordered  the  dinner,  I  took  my  place  at  the  head 
of  the  table.  A  happier  little  party — well,  of  course,  I  saw  it  all 
through  the  rose-mists  of  my  motherhood,  but  I  am  neverthe¬ 
less  bold  to  assert  that  my  husband  was  happy,  and  that  my 
mother  was  happy ;  and  if  there  was  one  more  guest  at  the  table 
concerning  whom  I  am  not  prepared  to  assert  that  he  was 
hap  y,  I  can  confidently  affirm  that  he  was  merry,  and  gracious, 
and  talkative,  originating  three  parts  of  the  laughter  of  the 
evening.  To  watch  him  with  the  baby  was  a  pleasure  even  to 
the  heart  of  a  mother,  anxious  as  she  must  be  when  any  one, 
especially  a  gentleman,  more  especially  a  bachelor,  and  most 
especially  a  young  bachelor,  takes  her  precious  little  wax-doll  in 
his  arms,  and  pretends  to  know  all  about  the  management  of 
such.  It  was  he  indeed  who  introduced  her  to  the  dining-room; 
for,  leaving  the  table  during  desert,  he  returned  bearing  her  in 


74 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter . 

his  arms,  to  my  astonishment,  and  even  mild  maternal  indigna¬ 
tion  at  the  liberty.  Resuming  his  seat,  and  pouring  out  for  his 
charge,  as  he  pretended,  a  glass  of  old  port,  he  said  in  the 
soberest  voice  : — 

“  Charles  Percivale,  with  all  the  solemnity  suitable  to  the 
occasion,  I,  the  old  moon  with  the  new  moon  in  my  arms,  pro¬ 
pose  the  health  of  Miss  Percivale  on  her  first  visit  to  this  boring 
bullet  of  a  world.  By  the  way,  what  a  mercy  it  is  that  she 
carries  her  atmosphere  with  her  !  ” 

Here  I,  stupidly  thinking  he  reflected  on  the  atmosphere 
of  baby,  rose  to  take  her  from  him  with  suppressed  indigna¬ 
tion — for  why  should  a  man  who  assumes  a  baby  unbidden, 
be  so  very  much  nicer  than  a  woman  who  accepts  her  as 
given,  and  makes  the  best  of  it  ?  But  he  declined  giv.ng  her 
up. 

“I’m  not  pinching  her,”  he  said. 

“No;  but  I  am  afraid  you  find  her  disagreeable.” 

“  On  the  contrary,  she  is  the  nicest  of  little  ladies  ;  for  she 
lets  you  talk  all  the  nonsense  you  like,  and  never  takes  the 
least  offence.” 

I  sat  down  again  directly. 

“  I  propose  her  health,”  he  repeated,  “  coupled  with  that  of 
her  mother,  to  whom  I,  for  one,  am  more  obliged  than  I  can 
explain — for  at  length  convincing  me  that  I  belong  no  more  to 
the  youth  of  my  country,  but  am  an  uncle  with  a  homuncle  in 
his  arms.” 

“  Wifie,  your  health  !  Baby,  yours  too  !  ”  said  my  husband  ; 
and  the  ladies  drank  the  toast  in  silence. 

It  is  time  I  explained  who  this  fourth — or  should  I  say  fifth? 
— person  in  our  family  party  was.  He  was  the  younger  brother 
of  my  Percivale,  by  name  Roger — still  more  unsuccessful  than 
he  ;  of  similar  trustworthiness  but  less  equanimity,  for  he  was 
subject  to  sudden  elevations  and  depressions  of  the  inner 
barometer.  I  shall  have  more  to  tell  about  him  by-and-by. 
Meantime  it  is  enough  to  mention  that  my  daughter— -how 
grand  I  thought  it  when  I  first  said  my  daughter  I  —now  began 


s 


75 


A  Negatived  Proposal \ 

her  acquaintance  with  him.  Before  long  he  was  her  chief 
favourite  next  to  her  mother  and — I  am  sorry  I  cannot  con¬ 
scientiously  add  father;  for,  at  a  certain  early  period  of  her 
history,  the  child  showed  a  decided  preference  for  her  unde 
over  her  father. 

But  it  is  time  I  put  a  stop  to  this  ooze  of  maternal  memories. 
Having  thus  introduced  my  baby  and  her  uncle  Roger,  I  close 
the  chapter. 


CHAPTER  XIIE 

A  NEGATIVED  PROPOSAL. 

It  may  well  be  believed  that  we  had  not  yet  seen  much  com¬ 
pany  in  our  little  house.  To  parties  my  husband  had  a  great 
dislike ;  evening  parties  he  eschewed  utterly,  and  never  ac¬ 
cepted  an  invitation  to  dinner,  except  it  were  to  the  house  of 
a  friend,  or  to  that  of  one  of  my  few  relatives  in  London,  whom, 
for  my  sake,  he  would  not  displease.  There  were  not  many 
even  among  his  artist-acquaintances  whom  he  cared  to  visit, 
and,  altogether,  I  fear  he  passed  for  an  unsociable  man.  I 
am  certain  he  would  have  sold  more  pictures  if  he  had  accepted 
what  invitations  came  in  his  way.  But  to  hint  at  such  a  thing 
would,  I  knew,  crystallize  his  dislike  into  a  resolve. 

One  day  after  I  had  got  quite  strong  again,  as  I  was  sitting 
by  him  in  the  study  with  my  baby  on  my  knee,  I  proposed 
that  we  should  ask  some  friends  to  dinner.  Instead  of  object¬ 
ing  to  the  procedure  upon  general  principles,  which  I  confess 
I  had  half  anticipated,  he  only  asked  me  whom  I  thought  of 
inviting.  When  I  mentioned  the  Morleys,  he  made  no  reply, 
but  went  on  with  his  painting  as  if  he  had  not  heard  me, 
whence  I  knew  of  course  that  the  proposal  was  disagreeable  to 
him. 

“  You  see  we  have  been  twice  to  dine  with  them/’  I  said. 


76 


The  Vicar's  Daughter, . 

“  Well,  don’t  you  think  that  enough  for  a  while?  ” 

“  I’m  talking  of  asking,  them  here  now.” 

“  Couldn’t  you  go  and  see  your  cousin  some  morning  in¬ 
stead  ?  ” 

“  It’s  not  that  I  want  to  see  my  cousin  particularly.  I  want 
to  ask  them  to  dinner.” 

“  Oh  !  ”  he  said,  as  if  he  couldn’t  in  the  least  make  out  what 
I  was  after,  “  I  thought  people  asked  people  because  they 
desired  their  company.” 

“  But,  you  see,  we  owe  them  a  dinner.” 

“  Owe  them  a  dinner  !  Did  you  borrow  one  then  ?  ” 

“  Percivale,  why  will  you  pretend  to  be  so  stupid  ?  ” 

“  Perhaps  I’m  only  pretending  to  be  the  other  thing.” 

“  Do  you  consider  yourself  under  no  obligation  to  people 
who  ask  you  to  dinner  ?  ” 

“  None  in  the  least— if  I  accept  the  invitation.  That  is  the 
natural  acknowledgment  of  their  kindness.  Surely  my  com¬ 
pany  is  worth  my  dinner.  It  is  far  more  trouble  to  me  to  put 
on  black  clothes  and  a  white  choker  and  go  to  their  house, 
than  it  is  for  them  to  ask  me,  or,  in  a  house  like  theirs,  to 
have  the  necessary  preparations  made  for  receiving  me  in  a 
manner  befitting  their  dignity.  I  do  violence  to  my  own  feel¬ 
ings  in  going — is  not  that  enough?  You  know  how  much  I 
prefer  a  chop  with  my  wife  alone  to  the  grandest  dinner  the 
grandest  of  her  grand  relations  could  give  me.” 

“  Now,  don’t  you  make  game  of  my  grand  relations.  I’m 
not  sure  that  you  haven’t  far  grander  relations  yourself,  only 
you  say  so  little  about  them,  they  might  all  have  been  trans¬ 
ported  for  housebreaking.  Tell  me  honestly,  don’t  you  think 
it  natural  if  a  friend  asks  you  to  dinner  that  you  should  ask 
him  again  ?  ” 

“  Yes;  if  it  would  give  him  any  pleasure.  But  just  imagine 
your  cousin  Morley  dining  at  our  table.  Do  you  think  he 
would  enjoy  it  ?  ” 

“Of  course  we  must  have  somebody  in  tc  help  Jemima.” 

u  And  somebody  to  wait,  I  suppose  ?  ” 


77 


A  Negatived  Proposal 

“  Yes,  of  course,  Percivale.” 

“And  what  Thackeray  calls  cold  balls  handed  about?’' 

“  Well,  I  wouldn’t  have  them  cold.’, 

“  But  they  would  be.” 

I  was  by  this  time  so  nearly  crying,  that  I  said  nothing  here. 

“  My  love,”  he  resumed,  “  I  object  to  the  whole  thing.  .  It’s 
all  false  together.  I  have  not  the  least  disinclination  to  asking 
a  few  friends  who  would  enjoy  being  received  in  the  same  style 
as  your  father  or  my  brother — namely,  to  one  of  our  better 
dinners,  and  perhaps  something  better  to  drink  than  I  can 
afford  every  day;  but  just  think  with  what  uneasy  compassion 
Mr.  Morley  would  regard  our  poor  ambitions — even  if  you  had 
an  occasional  cook  and  an  undertaker’s  man.  And  what  would 
he  do  without  his  glass  of  dry  sherry  after  his  soup,  and  his 
hock  and  champagne  later,  not  to  mention  his  fine  claret  or 
tawny  port  afterwards  ?  I  don’t  know  how  to  get  these  things 
good  enough  for  him,  without  laying  in  a  stock,  and  that  you 
know  would  be  as  absurd  as  it  is  impossible.” 

“  Oh,  you  gentlemen  always  think  so  much  of  the  wine !  ” 

“  Believe  me,  it  is  as  necessary  to  Mr.  Morley’s  comfort  as 
the  dainties  would  provide  him  with.  Indeed  it  would  be 
a  cruelty  to  ask  him.  He  would  not,  could  not  enjoy  it.” 

“  if  he  didn’t  like  it,  he  needn’t  come  again,”  I  said,  cross 
with  the  objections  of  which  I  could  not  but  see  the  justice. 

“Well,  I  must  say  you  have  an  odd  notion  of  hospitality,” 
said  my  bear. — “  You  may  be  certain,”  he  resumed  after  a 
moment’s  pause,  “  that  a  man  so  well  aware  of  his  own  im¬ 
portance,  will  take  it  far  more  as  a  compliment  that  you  do 
not  presume  to  invite  him  to  your  house,  but  are  content  to 
enjoy  his  society  when  he  asks  you  to  his.” 

“  I  don’t  choose  to  take  such  an  inferior  position,”  I  said. 

“You  can’t  help  it,  my  dear,”  he  returned.  “  Socially  con¬ 
sidered,  you  are  his  inferior.  You  cannot  give  dinners  he 
would  regard  with  anything  better  than  a  friendly  contempt, 
combined  with  a  certain  mild  indignation  at  your  having  pre¬ 
sumed  to  ask  him — used  to  such  different  ways.  It  is  far  more 


78  The  Vicar's  Daughter. 

graceful  to  accept  the  small  fact  and  let  him  have  his  whim, 
which  is  not  a  subversive  one,  or  at  all  dangerous  to  the  com¬ 
munity — being  of  a  sort  easy  to  cure.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha !  ” 

<£  May  I  ask  what  you  are  laughing  at  ?  ”  I  said  with 
severity. 

“  I  was  only  fancying  how  such  a  man  must  feel — if  what 
your  blessed  father  believes  be  true — when  he  is  stripped  all 
at  once  of  every  possible  source  of  consequence — stripped  of 
position,  funds,  house,  including  cellar — clothes,  body,  includir  g 
stomach — ” 

“  There,  there !  don’t  be  vulgar.  It  is  not  like  you,  Perci- 
vale.” 

“  My  love,  there  is  far  greater  vulgarity  in  refusing  to  ac¬ 
knowledge  the  inevitable,  either  in  society  or  in  physiology. 
Just  ask  my  brother  his  experience  in  regard  of  the  word  to 
which  you  object.” 

“  I  will  leave  that  to  you.” 

“  Don’t  be  vexed  with  me,  my  wife,”  he  said. 

“  I  don’t  like  not  to  be  allowed  to  pay  my  debts.” 

“  Back  to  the  starting-point,  like  a  hunted  hare  !  A  woman’s 
way,”  he  said  merrily,  hoping  to  make  me  laugh,  for  he  could 
not  doubt  I  should  see  the  absurdity  of  my  position  with  a 
moment’s  reflection.  But  I  was  out  of  temper,  and  chose  to 
pounce  upon  the  liberty  taken  with  my  sex,  and  regard  it  as 
an  insult.  Without  a  word  I  rose,  pressed  my  baby  to  my 
bosom  as  if  her  mother  had  been  left  a  widow,  and  swept  away. 
Percivale  started  to  his  feet ;  I  did  not  see,  but  I  knew  he 
gazed  after  me  for  a  moment ;  then  I  heard  him  sit  down  to 
his  painting  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  but,  I  knew,  with  a 
sharp  pain  inside  his  great  chest.  For  me,  I  found  the  preci¬ 
pice,  or  Jacob’s  ladder,  I  had  to  climb,  very  subversive  of  my 
dignity;  for  when  a  woman  has  to  hold  a  baby  in  one  arm, 
and  with  the  hand  of  the  other  lift  the  front  of  her  skirt  in 
order  to  walk  up  an  almost  perpendicular  staircase,  it  is  quite 
impossible  for  her  to  sweep  any  more. 

When  I  reached  the  top — I  don’t  know  how  it  was,  but  the 


79 


My  First  Dinner-Party. 

picture  he  had  made  of  me,  with  the  sunset-shine  coming 
through  the  window,  flashed  upon  my  memory.  All  dignity 
forgotten,  I  bolted  through  the  door  at  the  top,  flung  my  baby 
into  the  arms  of  her  nurse,  turned,  almost  tumbled  headlong 
down  the  precipice,  and  altogether  tumbled  down  at  my  hus¬ 
band’s  chair.  I  couldn’t  speak,  I  could  only  lay  my  head  on 
his  knees. 

“Darling,”  he  said,  “you  shall  ask  the  great  Pan  Jan  with 
his  button  atop,  if  you  like.  I’ll  do  my  best  for  him.” 

Between  crying  and  laughing,  I  nearly  did  what  I  have  never 
really  done  yet — I  nearly  went  off.  There  !  I  am  sure  that 
phrase  is  quite  as  objectionable  as  the  word  I  wrote  a  little 
while  ago,  and  there  it  shall  stand,  as  a  penance  for  having 
called  any  word  my  husband  used  vulgar. 

“  I  was  very  naughty,  Percivale,”  I  said.  “  I  will  give  a 
dinner-party,  and  it  shall  be  such  as  you  shall  enjoy,  and  I 
won’t  ask  Mr.  Morley.” 

“  Thank  you,  my  love,”  he  said  ;  “and  the  next  time  Mr. 
Morley  asks  us  I  will  go  without  a  grumble,  and  make  myself 
as  agreeable  as  I  can.” 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

MY  FIRST  DINNER-PARTY 

It  may  have  seemed  to  some  of  my  readers  occasion  for  sur¬ 
prise  that  the  mistress  of  a  household  should  have  got  so  far  in 
the  construction  of  a  book  without  saying  a  word  about  her 
own  or  other  people’s  servants — without  even  a  remark  on 
servants  in  general.  Such  occasion  shall  no  longer  be  afforded 
them,  for  now  I  am  going  to  say  several  things  about  one  of 
mine,  and  thereby  introduce  a  few  results  of  much  experience 
and  some  thought.  I  do  not  pretend  to  have  made  a  single 


8o 


The  Vicars  Daughter, 

discovery — but  only  to  have  achieved  what  I  count  a  certain 
measure  of  success,  which,  however,  I  owe  largely  to  my  own 
poverty,  and  the  stupidity  of  my  cook. 

I  have  had  a  good  many  servants  since,  but  Jemima  seems 
a  fixture.  How  this  has  come  about,  it  would  be  impossible  to 
say  in  ever  so  many  words.  Over  and  over  I  have  felt,  and 
may  feel  again  before  the  day  is  ended,  a  profound  sympathy 
with  Sinbad  the  sailor,  when  the  old  man  of  the  sea  was  on 
his  back,  and  the  hope  of  ever  getting  him  off  it  had  not  yet 
begun  to  dawn.  She  has  by  turns  every  fault  under  the  sun  — 
I  say  fault  only — will  struggle  with  one  for  a  day,  and  succumb 
to  it  for  a  month;  while  the  smallest  amount  of  praise  is  sufficient 
to  render  her  incapable  of  deserving  a  word  of  commendation 
for  a  week.  She  is  intensely  stupid,  with  a  remarkable  genius 
— yes,  genius — for  cooking.  My  father  says  that  all  stupidity 
is  caused,  or  at  least  maintained,  by  conceit.  I  cannot  quite 
accompany  him  to  his  conclusions,  but  I  have  seen  plainly 
enough  that  the  stupidest  people  are  the  most  conceited,  which 
in  some  degree  favours  them.  It  was  long  an  impossibility  to 
make  her  see,  or  at  least  own,  that  she  was  to  blame  for  any¬ 
thing.  If  the  dish  she  had  last  time  cooked  to  perfection  made 
its  appearance  the  next  time  uneatable,  she  would  lay  it  all  to 
the  silly  oven,  was  too  hot  or  too  cold ;  or  the  silly  pepper-pot, 
the  top  of  which  fell  off  as  she  was  using  it.  She  had  no  sense 
of  the  value  of  proportion — would  insist  for  instance  that  she 
had  made  the  cake  precisely  as  she  had  been  told,  but  suddenly 
betray  that  she  had  not  weighed  the  flour,  which  could  be  of 
no  consequence,  seeing  she  had  weighed  everything  else. 

“  Please,  ’m,  could  you  eat  your  dinner  now,  for  it’s  all 
ready?”  she  came  saying  an  hour  before  dinner-time,  the  very 
first  day  after  my  mother  left.  Even  now  her  desire  to  be 
punctual  is  chiefly  evidenced  by  absurd  precipitancy,  to  the 
dangef  of  doing  everything  either  to  a  pulp  or  a  cinder.  Yet 
here  she  is,  and  here  she  is  likely  to  remain,  as  far  as  I  see, 
till  death,  or  some  other  catastrophe,  us  do  part.  The  reason 
of  it  is,  that,  with  all  her  faults— and  they  are  innumerable — she 


8i 


My  First  Dinner-Party . 

has  some  heart ;  yes,  after  deducting  all  that  can  oe  laid  to  the 
account  of  a  certain  cunning  perception  that  she  is  well  off,  she 
has  yet  a  good  deal  of  genuine  attachment  left ;  and  after 
setting  down  the  half  of  her  professions  to  the  blarney  which  is 
the  natural  weapon  of  the  weak-witted  Celt,  there  seems  yet 
left  in  her  of  the  vanishing  clan  instinct  enough  to  render  her 
a  jealous  partisan  of  her  master  and  mistress. 

Those  who  care  only  for  being  well-served,  will  of  course 
feel  contemptous  towards  any  one  who  would  put  up  with  such 
a  woman  for  a  single  moment  after  she  could  find  another;  but 
both  I  and  my  .husband  have  a  strong  preference  for  living  in 
a  family,  rather  than  in  a  hotel.  I  know  many  houses  in  which 
the  master  and  mistress  are  far  more  like  the  lodgers  on  suffer¬ 
ance  of  their  own  servants.  I  have  seen  a  worthy  lady  go 
about  wringing  her  hands  because  she  could  not  get  her  orders 
attended  to  in  the  emergency  of  a  slight  accident,  not  daring 
to  go  down  to  her  own  kitchen,  as  her  love  prompted,  and 
expedite  the  ministration.  I  am  at  least  mistress  in  my  own 
house  ;  my  servants  are,  if  not  yet  so  much  members  of  the 
family  as  I  could  wish,  gradually  becoming  more  so ;  there  is  a 
circulation  of  common  life  through  the  household,  rendering  us 
an  oiganization,  although  as  yet  perhaps  a  low  one ;  I  am  sure 
of  being  obeyed,  and  there  are  no  underhand  out-of-door  con¬ 
nexions.  When  I  go  to  the  houses  of  my  rich  relations,  anci 
hear  what  they  say  concerning  their  servants,  I  feel  as  if  they 
were  living  over  a  mine,  which  might  any  day  be  sprung,  and 
blow  them  into  a  state  of  utter  helplessness  ;  and  I  return  to 
my  house  blessed  in  the  knowledge  that  my  little  kingdom  is  my 
own,  and  that,  although  it  is  not  free  from  internal  upheavings 
and  stormy  commotions,  these  are  such  as  to  be  within  the 
control  and  restraint  of  the  general  family  influences  ;  while  the 
blunders  of  the  cook  seem  such  trifles  beside  the  evil  customs 
established  in  most  kitchens  of  which  I  know  anything,  that 
they  are  turned  even  into  sources  of  congratulation  as  securing 
her  services  for  ourselves.  More  than  once  my  husband  has 
insisted  on  raising  her  wages  on  the  ground  of  the  endless  good 


82 


The  Vicar's  Daughter . 

he  gets  in  his  painting  from  the  merriment  her  oddities  afford 
him— namely,  the  clear  insight,  which,  he  asserts,  is  the  in¬ 
variable  consequence.  I  must  in  honesty  say,  however,  that  I 
have  seen  him  something  else  than  merry  with  her  hehaviour 
many  a  time. 

But  I  find  the  things  I  have  to  say  so  crowd  upon  me,  that 
I  must  either  proceed  to  arrange  them  under  heads— which 
would  immediately  deprive  them  of  any  right  to  a  place  in  my 
story — or  keep  them  till  they  are  naturally  swept  from  the  bank 
of  my  material  by  the  slow  wearing  of  the  current  of  my  narra¬ 
tive.  I  prefer  the  latter  because  I  think  my  readers  will. 

What  with  one  thing  and  another,  this  thing  to  be  done  and 
that  thing  to  be  avoided,  there  was  nothing  more  said  about 
the  dinner-party  until  my  father  came  to  see  us  in  the  month 
of  July.  I  was  to  have  paid  them  a  visit  before  then,  but 
things  had  come  in  the  way  of  that  also,  and  now  my  father 
came  commissioned  by  my  mother  to  arrange  for  my  going  the 
next  month. 

As  soon  as  I  had  shown  him  to  his  little  room,  I  ran  down  to 
Percivale. 

“  Papa  is  come,”  I  said. 

“  I  am  delighted  to  hear  it,”  he  answered,  laying  down  his 
palette  and  brushes.  “  Where  is  he  ?  ” 

“  Gone  up-stairs,”  I  answered.  “  I  wouldn’t  disturb  you  till 
he  came  down  again.” 

He  answered  with  that  world-wide  English  phrase,  so  sugges¬ 
tive  of  a  hopeful  disposition — “  All  right !  ”  And  with  all  its 
grumbling,  and  the  tristesse  which  the  French  consider  its  chief 
characteristic,  I  think  my  father  is  right,  who  says  that,  more 
than  any  other  nation,  England  has  been,  is,  and  will  be,  saved 
by  hope.  Resuming  his  implements,  my  husband  added : 

“  I  haven’t  quite  finished  my  pipe — I  will  go  on  till  he  comes 
down.” 

Although  he  laid  it  on  his  pipe,  I  knew  well  enough  it  was 
just  that  little  bit  of  paint  he  wanted  to  finish,  and  not  the 
residue  of  tobacco  in  the  black  and  red  buwl. 


My  First  Dinner-Party .  S3 

“  And  now  we’ll  have  our  dinner-party,”  I  said. 

I  do  believe  that,  for  all  the  nonsense  I  had  talked  about 
returning  invitations,  the  real  thing  at  my  heart  even  then  was 
an  impulse  towards  hospitable  entertainment,  and  the  desire  to 
see  my  husband  merry  with  his  friends,  under — shall  I  say  it  ? 
— the  protecting  wing  of  his  wife.  For,  as  mother  of  the  family, 
the  wife  has  to  mother  her  husband  also,  to  consider  him  as  her 
first-born,  and  look  out  for  what  will  not  only  give  him  pleasure 
but  be  good  for  him.  And  I  may  just  add  here,  that  for  a  long 
time  my  bear  has  fully  given  in  to  this. 

“  And  who  are  you  going  to  ask  ?  ”  he  said.  “  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Morley  to  begin  with,  and — ” 

“  No,  no,”  I  answered.  “  We  are  going  to  have  a  jolly  evening 
of  it,  with  nobody  present  who  will  make  you  either  anxious  or 
annoyed.  Mr.  Blackstone  ” — he  wasn’t  married  then — “  Miss 
Clare,  I  think — and — ” 

“  What  do  you  ask  her  for?  ” 

“  I  won’t  if  you  don’t  like  her,  but — ” 

“  I  haven't  had  a  chance  of  liking  or  disliking  her  yet.” 

“  That  is  partly  why  I  want  to  ask  her — I  am  so  sure  you 
would  like  her  if  you  knew  her.” 

“Where  did  you  tell  me  you  had  met  her?” 

“At  Cousin  Judy’s.  I  must  have  one  lady  to  keep  me  in 
countenance  with  so  many  gentlemen,  you  know.  I  have 
another  reason  for  asking  her,  which  I  would  rather  you  should 
find  out  than  I  tell  you.  Do  you  mind?” 

“  Not  in  the  least,  if  you  don’t  think  she  will  spoil  the  fun.” 

“  I  am  sure  she  won’t.  Then  there’s  your  brother  Roger.” 

“  Of  course.  Who  more  ?  ” 

“  I  think  that  will  do.  There  will  be  six  of  us  then — quite  a 
large  enough  party  for  our  little  dining-room.” 

“  Why  shouldn’t  we  dine  here  ?  It  wouldn’t  be  so  hot,  and 
we  should  have  more  room.” 

I  liked  the  idea.  The  night  before,  Percivale  arranged 
everything,  so  that  not  only  his  paintings,  of  which  he  had  far 
too  many,  and  which  were  huddled  about  the  room,  but  all  his 

C  2 


84 


The  Vicars  Daughter. 

properties  as  well,  should  be  accessory  to  a  picturesque  effect. 
And  when  the  table  was  covered  with  the  glass  and  plate — of 
which  latter  my  mother  had  taken  care  I  should  not  be  destitute, 
and  adorned  with  the  flowers  which  Roger  brought  me  from 
Covent  Garden,  assisted  by  some  of  our  own,  I  thought  the 
bird’s-eye  view  from  the  top  of  Jacob’s  ladder  a  very  pretty  one 
indeed. 

Resolved  that  Percivale  should  have  no  cause  of  complaint 
as  regarded  the  simplicity  of  my  arrangements,  I  gave  orders 
that  our  little  Ethel,  who  at  that  time  of  the  evening  was  always 
asleep,  should  be  laid  on  the  couch  in  my  room  off  the  study, 
with  the  door  ajar,  so  that  Sarah,  who  was  now  her  nurse,  might 
wait  with  an  easy  mind.  The  dinner  was  brought  in  by  the 
outer  door  of  the  study,  to  avoid  the  awkwardness  and  possible 
disaster  of  the  private  precipice. 

The  principal  dish — a  small  sirloin  of  beef — was  at  the 
foot  of  the  table,  and  a  couple  of  boiled  fowls,  as  I  thought, 
before  me.  But  when  the  cover  was  removed,  to  my  surprise 
I  found  they  were  roasted. 

“What  have  you  got  there,  Percivale ?”  I  asked.  “Isn’t  it 
sirloin?  ” 

“  I’m  not  an  adept  in  such  matters,”  he  replied.  “  I  should 
say  it  was.” 

My  father  gave  a  glance  at  the  joint.  Something  seemed  to 
be  wrong.  I  rose  and  went  to  my  husband’s  side.  Powers  of 
cuisine  !  Jemima  had  roasted  the  fowls,  and  boiled  the  sirloin ! 
My  exclamation  was  the  signal  for  an  outbreak  of  laughter, 
led  by  my  father.  1  was  trembling  in  the  balance  between 
mortification  on  my  own  account  and  sympathy  with  the  evident 
amusement  of  my  father  and  Mr.  Blackstone.  But  the  thought 
that  Mr.  Morley  might  have  been  and  was  not  of  the  party, 
came  with  such  a  pang  and  such  a  relief,  that  it  settled  the  point, 
and  I  burst  out  laughing. 

“  I  dare  say  it’s  all  right,”  said  Roger.  “  Why  shouldn’t  a 
sirloin  be  boiled  as  well  as  roasted  ?  I  venture  to  assert  that 
it  is  all  a  whim,  and  we  are  on  the  verge  of  a  new  discovery  to 


My  First  Dinner-Party .  85 

swell  the  number  of  those  which  already  owe  their  being  to 
blunders.” 

“  Let  us  all  try  a  slice,  then,”  said  Mr.  Blackstone,  “  and 
compare  results.” 

This  was  agreed  to,  and  a  solemn  silence  followed,  during 
which  each  sought  acquaintance  with  the  new  dish. 

“  I  am  sorry  to  say,”  remarked  my  father,  speaking  first, 
“  that  Roger  is  all  wrong,  and  we  have  only  made  the  discovery 
that  custom  is  right.  It  is  plain  enough  why  sirloin  is  always 
roasted.” 

“  I  yield  myself  convinced,”  said  Roger. 

“  And  I  am  certain,”  said  Mr.  Blackstone,  “  that  if  the  loin 
set  before  the  king,  whoever  he  was,  had  been  boiled,  he  would 
never  have  knighted  it.” 

Thanks  to  the  loin,  the  last  possible  touch  of  constraint  had 
vanished,  and  the  party  grew  a  very  merry  one.  The  apple¬ 
pudding  which  followed,  was  declared  perfect,  and  eaten  up. 
Percivale  produced  some  good  wine  from  somewhere,  which 
evidently  added  to  the  enjoyment  of  the  gentlemen,  my  father 
included,  who  likes  a  good  glass  of  wine  as  well  as  anybody. 
But  a  tiny  little  whimper  called  me  away,  and  Miss  Clare 
accompanied  me,  the  gentlemen  insisting  that  we  should  return 
as  soon  as  possible,  and  bring  the  homuncle,  as  Roger  called 
the  baby,  with  us. 

When  we  returned,  the  two  clergymen  were  in  close  con¬ 
versation,  and  the  other  two  gentlemen  were  chiefly  listening. 
My  father  was  saying  : 

“  My  dear  sir,  I  don't  see  how  any  man  can  do  his  duty  as  a 
clergyman  who  doesn’t  visit  his  parishioners. 

“In  London  it  is  simply  impossible,”  returned  Mr.  Black¬ 
stone.  “Besides  — in  the  country  you  are  welcome  wherever 
you  go ;  any  visit  I  might  pay,  would  most  likely  be  regarded 
either  as  an  intrusion,  or  as  giving  the  right  to  pecuniary  aid, 
of  which  evils  the  latter  is  the  worse.  There  are  portions  of 
every  London  parish  which  clergymen  and  their  coadjutors  have 
so  degraded  by  the  practical  teaching  of  beggary,  that  they  have 


86  The  Vicars  Daughter . 

blocked  up  every  door  to  a  healthy  spiritual  relation  between 
them  and  a  possible  pastor.” 

“  Would  you  not  give  alms  at  all,  then  ?  ” 

“One  thing,  at  least,  I  have  made  up  my  mind  upon  — that 
alms  from  any  but  the  hand  of  personal  friendship  tend  to  evil, 
and  will,  in  the  long  run,  increase  misery.” 

“  What,  then,  do  you  suppose  the  proper  relation  between  a 
London  clergyman  and  bis  parishioners?  ” 

“  One,  I  am  afraid,  which  does  not  at  present  exist — one 
which  it  is  his  first  business  perhaps  to  bring  about.  I  confess 
I  regard  with  a  repulsion  amounting  to  horror  the  idea  of 
walking  into  a  poor  man’s  house,  except  either  I  have  business 
with  him,  or  desire  his  personal  acquaintance.” 

“  But  your  office — ” 

“Makes  it  my  business  to  serve— not  to  assume  authority 
over  them — especially  to  the  degree  of  forcing  service  upon 
them.  I  will  not  say  how  far  intimacy  may  not  justify  you  in 
immediate  assault  upon  a  man’s  conscience  ;  but  I  shrink  from 
any  plan  that  seems  to  take  it  for  granted  that  the  poor  are 
more  wicked  than  the  rich.  Why  don’t  we  send  missionaries 
to  Belgravia  ?  The  outside  of  the  cup  and  platter  may  some¬ 
times  be  dirtier  than  the  inside.” 

“  Your  missionary  could  hardly  force  his  way  through  the 
servants  to  the  boudoir  or  drawing-room.” 

“And  the  poor  have  no  servants  to  defend  them.” 

I  have  recorded  this  much  of  the  conversation  chiefly  for  the 
sake  of  introducing  Miss  Clare,  who  now  spoke. 

“  Don’t  you  think,  sir,”  she  asked,  addressing  my  father,  “  that 
the  help  one  can  give  to  another  must  always  depend  on  the 
measure  in  which  one  is  free  oneself?’ 

My  father  was  silent — thinking.  We  were  all  silent.  I  said 
to  myself,  “There,  papa!  that  is  something  after  your  own 
heart.”  With  marked  deference  and  solemnity  he  answered  at 
length — 

“I  have  little  doubt  you  aie  right,  Miss  Clare.  That  puts 
the  question  upon  its  own  eternal  foundation.  The  mode  used 


My  First  Dinner-Party,  87 

must  be  of  infinitely  less  importance  than  the  person  who  uses 
it.” 

As  he  spoke,  he  looked  at  her  with  a  far  more  attentive 
regard  than  hitherto.  Indeed,  the  eyes  of  all  the  company 
seemed  to  be  scanning  the  small  woman ;  but  she  bore  the 
scrutiny  well,  if  indeed  she  was  not  unconscious  of  it ;  and  my 
husband  began  to  find  out  one  of  my  reasons  for  asking  her, 
which  was  simply  that  he  might  see  her  face.  At  this  moment, 
it  was  in  one  of  its  higher  phases.  It  was,  at  its  best,  a  grand 
face — at  its  worst,  a  suffering  face  ;  a  little  too  large,  perhaps* 
for  the  small  body  which  it  crowned  with  a  flame  of  soul ;  but 
while  you  saw  her  face  you  never  thought  of  the  rest  of  her, 
and  her  attire  seemed  to  court  an  escape  from  all  observation. 

“  But,”  my  father  went  on,  looking  at  Mr.  Blackstone,  “  I 
am  anxious,  from  the  clergyman’s  point  of  view,  to  know  what 
my  friend  here  thinks  he  must  try  to  do  in  his  very  difficult 
position.” 

“  I  think  the  best  thing  I  could  do,”  returned  Mr.  Black- 
stone,  laughing,  “  would  be  to  go  to  school  to  Miss  Clare.” 

“  I  shouldn’t  wonder,”  my  father  responded. 

“  But,  in  the  meantime,  I  should  prefer  the  chaplaincy  of  a 
suburban  cemetery.” 

“  Certainly  your  charge  would  be  a  less  troublesome  one. 
Your  congregation  would  be  quiet  enough,  at  least,”  said  Roger. 

“  ‘  Then  are  they  glad  because  they  be  quiet,’”  said  my 
father,  as  if  unconsciously  uttering  his  own  reflections.  But  he 
was  a  little  cunning,  and  would  say  things  like  that  when, 
fearful  of  irreverence,  he  wanted  to  turn  the  current  of  the  con¬ 
versation. 

“  But,  surely,”  said  Miss  Clare,  “  a  more  active  congregation 
would  be  quite  as  desirable.” 

She  had  one  fault — no,  defect  :  she  was  slow  to  enter  into 
the  humour  of  a  thing.  It  seemed  almost  as  if  the  first  aspect 
of  any  bit  of  fun  presented  to  her  was  that  of  something  wrong. 
A  moment’s  reflection,  however,  almost  always  ended  in  a  sunny 
laugh,  partly  at  her  own  stupidity,  as  she  called  it. 


88 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter . 

“  You  mistake  my  meaning,”  said  Mr.  Blackstone.  “  My 
chief,  almost  sole,  attraction  to  the  regions  of  the  grave  is  the 
sexton,  and  not  the  placidity  of  the  inhabitants ;  though  per¬ 
haps  Miss  Clare  might  value  that  more  highly  if  she  had  more 
experience  of  how  noisy  human  nature  can  be.” 

Miss  Clare  gave  a  little  smile,  which  after- knowledge  enabled 
me  to  interpret  as  meaning — “  Perhaps  I  do  know  a  trifle  about 
it ;  ’* — but  she  said  nothing. 

“  My  first  inquiry,”  he  went  on,  “  before  accepting  such  an 
appointment,  would  be  as  to  the  character  and  mental  habits 
of  the  sexton.  If  I  found  him  a  man  capable  of  regarding 
human  nature  from  a  stand-point  of  his  own,  I  should  close 
with  the  offer  at  once.  If,  on  the  contrary,  he  was  a  common¬ 
place  man,  who  made  faultless  responses,  and  cherished  the 
friendship  of  the  undertaker,  I  should  decline.  In  fact,  I  should 
regard  the  sexton  as  my  proposed  master ;  and  whether  I 
should  accept  the  place  or  not  would  depend  altogether  on 
whether  I  liked  him  or  not.  Think  what  revelations  of  human 
nature  a  real  man  in  such  a  position  could  give  me.  (  Hand 
me  the  shovel.  You  stop  a  bit — you’re  out  of  breath.  Sit 
down  on  that  stone  there,  and  light  your  pipe  ;  here’s  some 
tobacco.  Now  tell  me  the  rest  of  the  story.  How  did  the  old 
fellow  get  on  after  he  had  buried  his  termagant  wife?  *  That’s 
how  I  should  treat  him  ;  and  I  should  get  in  return  such  a 
succession  of  peeps  into  human  life,  and  intent,  and  aspira¬ 
tion,  as,  in  the  course  of  a  few  years,  would  send  me  to  the 
next  vicarage  that  turned  up,  a  sadder  and  wiser  man, 
Mr.  Walton.” 

“  I  don’t  doubt  it,”  said  my  father  ;  but  whether  in  sympathy 
with  Mr.  Blackstone,  or  in  latent  disapproval  of  a  tone  judged 
unbecoming  to  a  clergyman,  I  cannot  tell.  Sometimes,  I  confess, 
I  could  not  help  suspecting  the  source  of  the  deficiency  in 
humour  which  he  often  complained  of  in  me  ;  but  I  always  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  what  seemed  such  a  deficiency  in  him 
was  only  occasioned  by  the  presence  of  a  deeper  feeling. 

Miss  Clare  was  the  first  to  leave. 


My  First  Dinner-Party .  89 

“What  a  lovely  countenance  that  is  !  ”  said  my  husband,  the 
moment  she  was  out  of  hearing. 

“  She  is  a  very  remarkable  woman,”  said  my  father. 

“  I  suspect  she  knows  a  good  deal  more  than  most  of  us,” 
said  Mr.  Blackstone.  “  Did  you  see  how  her  face  lighted  up 
always  before  she  said  anything?  You  can  never  come  nearer 
to  seeing  a  thought  than  in  her  face  just  before  she  speaks.” 

“  What  is  she  ?  ”  asked  Roger. 

“  Can’t  you  see  what  she  is  ?  ”  returned  his  brother.  “  She’s 
a  saint— Saint  Clare.” 

“  If  you  had  been  a  Scotchman  now,”  said  Roger,  “  that 
fine  name  would  have  sunk  to  Sinkler  in  your  mouth.” 

“  Not  a  more  vulgar  corruption,  however,  than  is  common 
in  the  mouths  of  English  lords  and  ladies,  when  they  turn 
St.  John  into  S ingen,  reminding  one  of  nothing  but  the  French 
for  an  ape,”  said  my  father. 

“  But  what  does  she  do  ?  ”  persisted  Roger. 

“Why  should  you  think  she  does  anything?”  I  asked. 

“  She  looks  as  if  she  had  to  earn  her  own  living  ” 

“  She  does.  She  teaches  music.” 

“  Why  didn’t  you  ask  her  to  play  ?  ” 

“  Because  this  is  the  first  time  she  has  been  to  the  house.” 

“  Does  she  go  to  church,  do  you  suppose  ?  ” 

“  I  have  no  doubt  of  it ;  but  why  do  you  ask  ?  ” 

“  Because  she  looks  as  if  she  didn’t  want  it.  I  never  saw 
such  an  angelic  expression  upon  a  countenance.” 

“You  must  take  me  to  call  upon  her,”  said  my  father. 

“  I  will  with  pleasure,”  I  answered. 

I  found,  however,  that  this  was  easier  promised  than  per¬ 
formed,  for  I  had  asked  her  by  word  of  mouth  at  Cousin  Judy’s, 
and  had  not  the  slightest  idea  where  she  lived.  Of  course  I 
applied  to  Judy,  but  she  had  mislaid  her  address,  and  promising 
to  ask  her  for  it,  forgot  more  than  once.  My  father  had  to 
return  home  without  seeing  her  again. 


90 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter . 


CHAPTER  XV. 

A  PICTURE. 

\ 

Things  went  on  very  quietly  for  some  time.  Of  course  I  was 
fully  occupied,  as  well  I  might  be,  with  a  life  to  tend  and 
cultivate  which  must  blossom  at  length  into  the  human  flowers 
of  love  and  obedience  and  faith.  The  smallest  service  I  did 
the  wonderful  thing  that  lay  in  my  lap,  seemed  a  something  in 
itself  so  well  worth  doing,  that  it  was  worth  living  to  do  it.  As 
I  gazed  on  the  new  creation,  so  far  beyond  my  understanding, 
yet  so  dependent  upon  me  while  asserting  an  absolute  and 
divine  right  to  all  I  did  for  her,  I  marvelled  that  God  should 
entrust  me  with  such  a  charge,  that  he  did  not  keep  the  lovely 
♦  creature  in  his  own  arms  and  refuse  her  to  any  others.  Then  I 
would  bethink  myself  that  in  giving  her  into  mine,  he  had  not 
sent  her  out  of  his  own  ;  for  I,  too,  was  a  child  in  his  arms, 
holding  and  tending  my  live  doll,  until  it  should  grow  something 
like  me,  only  ever  so  much  better.  Was  she  not  given  to  me 
that  she  might  learn  what  I  had  begun  to  learn — namely,  that 
a  willing  childhood  was  the  flower  of  life  ?  How  can  any 
mother  sit  with  her  child  on  her  lap  and  not  know  that  there 
is  a  God  over  all— know  it  by  the  rising  of  her  own  heart  in 
prayer  to  him  ?  But  so  few  have  had  parents  like  mine  !  If 
my  mother  felt  thus  when  I  lay  in  her  arms,  it  was  no  wonder 
I  should  feel  thus  when  my  child  lay  in  mine. 

Before  I  had  children  of  my  own,  I- did  not  care  about 
children,  and  therefore  did  not  understand  them  ;  but  I  had 
read  somewhere — and  it  clung  to  me  although  I  did  not 
understand  it — that  it  was  in  laying  hold  of  the  heart  of  his 
mother  that  Jesus  laid  his  first  hold  on  the  world  to  redeem 
it ;  and  now  at  length  I  began  to  understand  it.  What  a 
divine  way  of  saving  us  it  was — to  let  her  bear  him,  carry  him 
in  her  bosom,  wash  him  and  dress  him  and  nurse  him  and 
sing  him  to  sleep — offer  him  the  adoration  of  mother’s  love, 


A  Picture . 


9T 

misunderstand  him,  chide  him,  forgive  him  even  for  fancied 
wrong !  Such  a  love  might  well  save  a  world  in  which  were 
mothers  enough.  It  was  as  if  he  had  said,  “Ye  shall  no  more 
offer  vain  sacrifices  to  one  who  needs  them  not,  and  cannot 
use  them.  I  will  need  them,  so  require  them  at  your  hands. 
I  will  hunger  and  thirst  and  be  naked  and  cold,  and  ye  shall 
minister  to  me.  Sacrifice  shall  be  no  more  a  symbol  but  a 
real  giving  unto  God  ;  and  when  I  return  to  the  Father,  inas¬ 
much  as  ye  do  it  to  one  of  the  least  of  these,  ye  do  it  unto 
me.”  So  all  the  world  is  henceforth  the  temple  of  God  ;  its 
worship  is  ministration ;  the  commonest  service  is  divine  service. 

I  feared  at  first  that  the  new  strange  love  I  felt  in  my  heart 
came  only  of  the  fact  that  the  child  was  Percivale’s  and  mine ; 
but  I  soon  found  it  had  a  far  deeper  source— that  it  sprang  from 
the  very  humanity  of  the  infant  woman,  yea,  from  her  relation 
in  virtue  of  that  humanity  to  the  Father  of  all.  The  fountain 
appeared  in  my  heart  :  it  arose  from  an  infinite  store  in  the 
unseen. 

Soon,  however,  came  jealousy  of  my  love  for  my  baby.  I 
feared  lest  it  should  make  me — nay,  was  making  me  neglect 
my  husband.  The  fear  first  arose  in  me  one  morning  as  I  sat 
with  her  half  dressed  on  my  knees.  I  was  dawdling  over  her 
in  my  fondness,  as  I  used  to  dawdle  over  the  dressing  of  my 
doll,  when  suddenly  I  became  aware  that  never  once  since  her 
arrival  had  I  sat  with  my  husband  in  his  study.  A  pang  of 
dismay  shot  through  me.  “  Is  this  to  be  a  wife  ?  ”  I  said  to 
myself ; — “  To  play  with  a  live  love  like  a  dead  doll,  and  for¬ 
get  her  husband!”  I  caught  up  a  blanket  from  the  cradle  — 
I  am  not  going  to  throw  away  that  good  old  word  for  the  ugly 
outlandish  name  they  gave  it  now,  reminding  one  only  of  a 
helmet  — I  caught  up  a  blanket  from  the  cradle,  I  say,  wrapped 
it  round  the  treasure,  which  was  shooting  its  arms  and  legs  in 
every  direction  like  a  polypus  feeling  after  its  food — and  rushed 
down-stairs,  and  down  the  precipice  into  the  study.  Percivale 
started  up  in  terror,  thinking  something  fearful  had  happened, 
and  I  was  bringing  him  all  that  was  left  of  the  child. 


92 


The  Vicar's  Daughter, 

“  What  — what — what’s  the  matter?  ”  he  gasped. 

I  could  not  while  he  was  thus  frightened  explain  to  him 
what  had  driven  me  to  him  in  such  alarming  haste. 

“  I’ve  brought  you  the  baby  to  kiss,”  I  said,  unfolding  the 
blanket  and  holding  up  the  sprawling  little  goddess  towards  the 
face  that  towered  above  me. 

“  Was  it  dying  for  a  kiss  then?  ”  he  said,  taking  her,  blanket 
and  all,  from  my  arms. 

The  end  of  the  blanket  swept  across  his  easel,  and  smeared 
the  face  of  the  baby  in  a  picture  of  the  Th?‘ee  Kings .  at  which 
he  was  working. 

“Oh,  Percivale  !  ”  I  cried,  “you’ve  smeared  your  baby  !” 

“  But  this  is  a  real  live  baby ;  she  may  smear  anything  she 
likes.”  • 

“  Except  her  own  face  and  hands,  please,  then,  Percivale.” 

“  Or  her  blessed  frock,”  said  Percivale.  “  She  hasn’t  got  one, 
though.  Why  hasn’t  the  little  angel  got  her  feathers  on  yet  ?  ” 

“  I  was  in  such  a  hurry  to  bring  her.” 

“  To  be  kissed?  ” 

“No,  not  exactly.  It  wasn’t  her  I  was  in  a  hurry  to  bring; 
it  was  myself.” 

“  Ah  !  you  wanted  to  be  kissed,  did  you  ?  ” 

“  No,  sir.  I  didn’t  want  to  be  kissed  ;  but  I  did  so  want  to 
kiss  you,  Percivale.” 

“  Isn’t  it  all  the  same,  though,  darling  ?  ”  he  said.  “  It 
seems  so  to  me.” 

“  Sometimes,  Percivale,  you  are  so  very  stupid  !  It’s  not 
the  same  at  all.  There’s  a  world  of  difference  between  the 
two ;  and  you  ought  to  knowT  it,  or  be  told  it,  if  you  don’t.” 

“  I  shall  think  it  over  as  soon  as  you  leave  me,”  he  said. 

“  But  I’m  not  going  to  leave  you  for  a  long  time.  I  haven’t 
seen  you  paint  for  weeks  and  weeks — not  since  this  little 
troublesome  thing  came  poking  in  between  us.” 

“  But  she’s  not  dressed  yet.” 

“  That  doesn’t  signify.  She’s  well  wrapped  up,  and  quite 
warm.” 


A  Picture . 


93 


He  put  me  a  chair  where  I  could  see  his  picture  without 
catching  the  shine  of  the  paint.  I  took  the  baby  from  him, 
and  he  went  on  with  his  work. 

“You  don’t  think  I’m  going  to  sacrifice  all  my  privileges  to 
this  little  tyrant — do  you  ?  ”  I  said. 

“  It  would  be  rather  hard  for  me,  at  least,”  he  rejoined. 

“You  did  think  I  was  neglecting  you,  then,  Percivale?” 

“  Not  for  a  moment.” 

“  Then  you  didn’t  miss  me  ?  ” 

“I  did — very  much.” 

“  And  you  didn’t  grumble  ?  n 

“No.” 

“  Do  I  disturb  you  ?  ”  I  asked,  after  a  little  pause.  “  Can 
you  paint  just  as  well  when  I  am  here  as  when  you  are  alone?” 

“  Better.  I  feel  warmer  to  my  work  somehow.” 

I  was  satisfied,  and  held  my  peace.  When  I  am  best 
pleased  I  don’t  want  to  talk.  But  Percivale,  perhaps  not 
having  found  this  out  yet,  looked  anxiously  in  my  face ;  and, 
as  at  the  moment  my  eyes  were  fixed  on  his  picture,  I  thought 
he  wanted  to  find  out  whether  I  liked  the  design. 

“  I  see  it  now  !  ”  I  cried.  “  I  could  not  make  out  where 
the  Magi  were.” 

He  had  taken  for  the  scene  of  his  picture  an  old  farm 
kitchen,  or  yeoman’s  hall,  with  its  rich  brown  rafters,  its  fire 
on  the  hearth,  and  its  red  brick-floor.  A  tub  half  full  of 
bright  water  stood  on  one  side,  and  the  mother  was  bending 
over  her  baby,  which,  undressed  for  the  bath,  she  was  holding 
out  for  the  admiration  of  the  Magi.  Immediately  behind  the 
mother  stood,  in  the  garb  of  a  shepherd,  my  father,  leaning  on 
the  ordinary  shepherd’s  crook ;  my  mother,  like  a  peasant- 
woman  in  her  Sunday-best,  with  a  white  handkerchief  crossed 
upon  her  bosom,  stood  beside  him,  and  both  were  gazing  with 
a  chastened  yet  profound  pleasure  on  the  lovely  child. 

In  front  stood  two  boys  and  a  girl  — between  the  ages  of  five 
and  nine — gazing  each  with  a  peculiar  wondering  delight  on 
the  baby.  The  youngest  boy,  with  a  great  spotted  wooden 


94 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter. 

horse  in  his  hand,  was  approaching  to  embrace  the  infant  in 
such  fashion  as  made  the  toy  look  dangerous,  and  the  left  hand 
of  the  mother  was  lifted  with  a  motion  of  warning  and  defence. 
The  little  girl,  the  next  youngest,  had,  in  her  absorption, 
dropped  her  gaudily  dressed  doll  at  her  feet,  and  stood  suck¬ 
ing  her  thumb,  her  big  blue  eyes  wide  with  contemplation. 
The  eldest  boy  had  brought  his  white  rabbit  to  give  the  baby, 
but  had  forgotten  all  about  it,  so  full  was  his  heart  of  his  new 
brother.  An  expression  of  mingled  love  and  wonder  and 
perplexity  had  already  begun  to  dawn  upon  the  face,  but  it 
was  as  yet  far  from  finished.  He  stood  behind  the  other  two, 
peeping  over  their  heads. 

“  Were  you  thinking  of  that  Titian  in  the  Louvre,  with  the 
white  rabbit  in  it  ?  ”  I  asked  Percivale. 

“  I  did  not  think  of  it  until  after  I  had  put  in  the  rabbit,”  he 
replied.  “And  it  shall  remain,  for  it  suits  my  purpose,  and 
Titian  would  not  claim  all  the  white  rabbits  because  of  that  one.” 

“  Did  you  think  of  the  black  lamb  in  it,  then,  when  you 
laid  that  black  pussy  on  the  hearth  ?  ”  I  asked. 

“  Black  lamb  ?  ”  he  returned. 

“  Yes,”  I  insisted,  “  a  black  lamb,  in  the  dark  background  — 
such  a  very  black  lamb,  and  in  such  a  dark  background,  that 
it  seems  you  never  discovered  it.” 

“  Are  you  sure  ?  ”  he  persisted. 

“  Absolutely  certain,”  1  replied.  “  I  pointed  it  out  to  papa 
in  the  picture  itself  in  the  Louvre :  he  had  not  observed  it 
before  either.” 

“  I  am  very  glad  to  know  there  is  such  a  thing  there.  I 
need  not  answer  your  question,  you  see.  It  is  odd  enough  I 
should  have  put  in  the  black  puss.  Upon  some  grounds  I 
might  argue  that  my  puss  is  better  than  Titian’s  lamb.” 

“  What  grounds — tell  me.” 

“  If  the  painter  wanted  a  contrast,  a  lamb,  be  he  as  black  as 
ever  paint  could  make  him,  must  still  be  a  more  Christian 
animal  than  a  cat  as  white  as  snow.  Under  what  pretence 
could  a  cat  be  used  for  a  Christian  symbol  ?  ” 


Rumours . 


95 


“  What  do  you  make  of  her  playfulness  ?” 

“  I  should  count  that  a  virtue,  were  it  not  for  the  fatal 
objection  that  it  is  always  exercised  at  the  expense  of  other 
creatures.  ” 

“  A  ball  of  string,  or  a  reel,  or  a  bit  of  paper,  is  enough  for 
an  uncorrupted  kitten/’ 

“  But  you  must  not  forget  that  it  serves  only  in  virtue  of  the 
creature’s  imagination  representing  it  as  alive.  If  you  do  not 
make  it  move,  she  will  herself  set  it  in  motion  as  the  initiative 
of  the  game.  If  she  cannot  do  that,  she  will  take  no  notice 
of  it. 

“  Yes,  I  see.  I  give  in.” 

All  this  time  he  had  been  painting  diligently.  He  could 
now  combine  talking  and  painting  far  better  than  he  used. 
But  a  knock  came  to  the  study  door,  and  remembering  baby’s 
unpresentable  condition,  I  huddled  her  up,  climbed  the  stair 
again,  and  finished  the  fledging  of  my  little  angel  in  a  very 
happy  frame  of  mind. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

RUMOURS. 

Hardly  was  it  completed,  when  Cousin  Judy  called,  and  I 
went  down  to  see  her,  carrying  my  baby  with  me.  As  I 
went,  something  put  me  in  mind  that  I  must  ask  her  for  Miss 
Clare’s  address.  Lest  1  should  again  forget,  as  soon  as  she 
had  kissed  and  admired  the  baby,  I  said — 

“  Have  you  found  out  yet  where  Miss  Clare  lives,  Judy?  ” 

“  I  don’t  choose  to  find  out,”  she  answered.  “I  am  sorry 
to  say  I  have  had  to  give  her  up.  It  is  a  disappointment, 
I  confess.” 

# 

“  What  do  you  mean?  ”  I  said.  “ I  thought  you  considered 
her  a  very  good  teacher,” 


96 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter . 

u  I  have  no  fault  to  find  with  her  on  that  score.  She  was 
always  punctual,  and  I  must  allow  both  played  well  and 
taught  the  children  delightfully.  But  I  have  heard  such  ques¬ 
tionable  things  about  her  ! — very  strange  things  indeed  !  ” 

“  What  are  they  ?  ” 

“  I  can’t  say  I’ve  been  able  to  fix  on  more  than  one  thing 
directly  against  her  character,  but — ” 

“  Against  her  character  !  ”  I  exclaimed. 

“  Yes,  indeed.  She  lives  by  herself  in  lodgings,  and  the  house 
is  not  at  all  a  respectable  one.” 

“  But  have  you  made  no  further  inquiry  ?  ” 

“  I  consider  that  quite  enough.  I  had  already  met  more 
than  one  person,  however,  who  seemed  to  think  it  very  odd 
that  I  should  have  her  to  teach  music  in  my  family.” 

“  Did  they  give  any  reason  for  thinking  her  unfit  ?  ” 

“  I  did  not  choose  to  ask  them.  One  was  Miss  Clarke — you 
know  her.  She  smiled  in  her  usual  supercilious  manner,  but  in 
her  case  I  believe  it  was  only  because  Miss  Clare  looks  so 
dowdy.  Nobody  knows  anything  about  her,  though,  except 
what  I’ve  just  told  you.” 

“  And  who  told  you  that  ?  ” 

“  Mrs.  Jeffreson.” 

“  But  you  once  told  me  she  was  a  great  gossip.” 

“  Else  she  wouldn’t  have  heard  it.  But  that  doesn’t  make  it 
untrue.  In  fact,  she  convinced  me  of  its  truth,  for  she  knows 
the  place  she  lives  in,  and  assured  me  it  was  at  great  risk  of  in¬ 
fection  to  the  children  that  I  allowed  her  to  enter  the  house  ; 
and  so,  of  course,  I  felt  compelled  to  let  her  know  that  I 
didn’t  require  her  services  any  longer.” 

“  There  must  be  some  mistake,  surely  !  ”  I  said. 

“  Oh  !  no—  not  the  least — I  am  sorry  to  say.” 

“  How  did  she  take  it  ?  ” 

“Very  sweetly  indeed.  She  didn’t  even  ask  me  why,  which 
was  just  as  well,  seeing  I  should  have  found  it  awkward  to  tell 
her.  But  I  suppose  she  knew  too  many  grounds  herself  to  dare 
the  question.” 


Rumours . 


97 


I  was  dreadfully  sorry,  but  I  could  not  say  much  more  then. 
I  ventured  only  to  express  my  conviction  that  there  could  not 
be  any  charge  to  bring  against  Miss  Clare  herself;  for  that  one 
who  looked  and  spoke  as  she  did,  could  have  nothing  to  be 
ashamed  of.  Judy  however  insisted  that  what  she  had  heard 
was  reason  enough  for  at  least  ending  the  engagement ;  indeed, 
that  no  one  was  fit  for  such  a  situation  of  whom  such  things 
could  be  said,  whether  they  were  true  or  not. 

When  she  left  me,  I  gave  baby  to  her  nurse,  and  went 
straight  to  the  study,  peeping  in  to  see  if  Percivale  was  alone. 

He  caught  sight  of  me,  and  called  to  me  to  come  down. 

“  It’s  only  Roger,”  he  said. 

I  was  always  pleased  to  see  Roger.  He  was  a  strange  crea¬ 
ture — one  of  those  gifted  men  who  are  capableof  anything,  if  not 
of  everything,  and  yet  carry  nothing  within  sight  of  profi¬ 
ciency.  He  whistled  like  a  starling,  and  accompanied  his 
whistling  on  the  piano,  but  never  played.  He  could  also  do 
a  little  on  the  violin,  and  during  the  first  few  months  after 
my  marriage,  I  often  accompanied  him.  He  could  copy  a 
drawing  to  a  hair’s-breadth,  but  never  drew.  He  could  engrave 
well  on  wood,  but  although  he  had  often  been  employed  in 
that  way,  he  had  always  got  tired  of  it  after  a  few  weeks.  He 
was  for  ever  wanting  to  do  something  other  than  what  he  was 
at ;  and  the  moment  he  got  tired  of  a  thing,  he  would  work 
at  it  no  longer ;  for  he  had  never  learned  to  make  himself. 
He  would  come  every  day  to  the  study  for  a  week  to  paint 
in  backgrounds,  or  make  a  duplicate  ;  and  then,  perhaps,  we 
wouldn’t  see  him  for  a  fortnight.  At  other  times  he  would 
work,  say  for  a  month,  modelling,  or  carving  marble,  for  a 
sculptor  friend,  from  whom  he  might  have  had  constant  employ¬ 
ment  if  he  had  pleased.  He  had  given  lessons  in  various 
branches,  for  he  was  an  excellent  scholar,  and  had  the  finest 
ear  for  verse,  as  well  as  the  keenest  appreciation  of  the  love¬ 
liness  of  poetry,  that  I  have  ever  known.  He  had  stuck  to  this 
longer  than  to  anything  else,  strange  to  say  ;  for  one  would  have 
thought  it  the  least  attractive  of  employments  to  one  of  his  vola* 

li 


98  The  Vicar  s  Daughter . 

tile  disposition.  For  some  time  indeed  he  had  supported  him¬ 
self  comfortably  in  this  way;  for  through  friends  of  his  family 
he  had  had  good  introductions,  and,  although  he  wasted  a  good 
deal  of  money  in  buying  nick-nacks  that  promised  to  be  useful 
and  seldom  were,  he  had  no  objectionable  habits  except  in¬ 
ordinate  smoking.  But  it  happened  that  a  pupil — a  girl  of 
imaginative  disposition,  I  presume — fell  so  much  in  love  with 
him  that  she  betrayed  her  feelings  to  her  countess-mother,  and 
the  lessons  were  of  course  put  an  end  to.  I  suspect  he  did  not 
escape  heart-whole  himself,  for  he  immediately  dropped  all  his 
other  lessons,  and  took  to  writing  poetry  for  a  new  magazine, 
which  proved  of  ephemeral  constitution,  and  vanished  after  a 
few  months  of  hectic  existence. 

It  was  remarkable  that  with  such  instability  his  moral  nature 
should  continue  uncorrupted;  but  this  I  believe  he  owed  chiefly 
to  his  love  and  admiration  of  his  brother.  For  my  part,  I 
could  not  help  liking  him  much.  There  was  a  half-plaintive 
playfulness  about  him,  alternated  with  gloom,  and  occasionally 
with  wild  merriment,  which  made  him  interesting  even  when 
one  felt  most  inclined  to  quarrel  with  him.  The  worst  of  him 
was  that  he  considered  himself  a  generally  misunderstood,  if  not 
ill-used  man,  who  could  not  only  distinguish  himself,  but  render 
valuable  service  to  society,  if  only  society  would  do  him  the 
justice  to  give  him  a  chance.  Were  it  only,  however,  for  his  love 
to  my  baby,  I  could  not  but  be  ready  to  take  up  his  defence. 

When  I  mentioned  what  I  had  just  heard  about  Miss  Clare, 
Percivale  looked  both  astonished  and  troubled ;  but  before  he 
could  speak,  Roger,  with  the  air  of  a  man  of  the  world  whom 
experience  enabled  to  come  at  once  to  a  decision,  said — 

“  Depend  upon  it,  Wynnie,  there  is  falsehood  there  some¬ 
where.  You  will  always  be  nearer  the  truth  if  you  believe 
nothing,  than  if  you  believe  the  half  of  what  you  hear.” 

“  That’s  very  much  what  papa  says,’1 1  answered.  “  He  affirms 
that  he  never  searched  into  an  injurious  report  in  his  own 
parish  without  finding  it  so  nearly  false  as  to  deprive  it  of  all 
right  to  go  about.” 


Rumours . 


99 


“  Besides,”  said  Roger,  “  look  at  that  face  !  How  I  should 
like  to  model  it !  She’s  a  good  woman  that,  depend  upon  it !  ” 

I  was  delighted  with  his  enthusiasm. 

“  I  wish  you  would  ask  her  again,  as  soon  as  you  can,”  said 
Percivale,  who  always  tended  to  embody  his  conclusions  in  acts 
rather  than  in  words.  “  Your  cousin  Judy  is  a  jolly  good  crea¬ 
ture,  but  from  your  father’s  description  of  her  as  a  girl,  she  must 
have  grown  a  good  deal  more  worldly  since  her  marriage- 
Respectability  is  an  awful  snare.” 

“  Yes,”  said  Roger;  “  one  ought  to  be  very  thankful  to  be  a 
Bohemian  and  have  nothing  expected  of  him,  for  respectability 
is  a  most  fruitful  mother  of  stupidity  and  injustice.” 

I  could  not  help  thinking  that  he  might,  however,  have  a 
little  more  and  be  none  the  worse. 

“  I  should  be  very  glad  to  do  as  you  desire,  husband,”  I  said, 
“  but  how  can  I  ?  I  haven’t  yet  learned  where  she  lives.  It 
was  asking  Judy  for  her  address  once  more  that  brought  it  all 
out.  I  certainly  didn’t  insist,  as  I  might  have  done,  notwith¬ 
standing  what  she  told  me ;  but  if  she  didn’t  remember  it 
before,  you  may  be  sure  she  could  not  have  given  it  me  then.” 

“  It’s  very  odd,”  said  Roger,  stroking  his  long  moustache, 
the  sole  ornament  of  the  kind  he  wore. — “  It’s  very  odd,”  he 
repeated  thoughtfully,  and  then  paused  again. 

“  What’s  so  very  odd,  Roger  ?  ”  asked  Percivale. 

“  The  other  evening,”  answered  Roger,  after  yet  a  short 
pause,  “  happening  to  be  in  Tottenham  Court  Road,  I 
walked  for  some  distance  behind  a  young  woman  carrying 
a  brown  beer-jug  in  her  hand — for  I  sometimes  amuse  my¬ 
self  in  the  street  by  walking  persistently  behind  some  one, 
devising  the  unseen  face  in  my  mind,  until  the  recognition 
of  the  same  step  following  causes  the  person  to  look  round 
at  me,  and  give  me  the  opportunity  of  comparing  the  two — 
I  mean  the  one  I  had  devised  and  the  real  one.  When  the 
young  woman  at  length  turned  her  head,  it  was  only  my 
astonishment  that  kept  me  from  addressing  her  as  Miss  Clare. 
My  surprise  however  gave  me  time  to  see  how  absurd  it  would 

H  2 


ioo  The  Vicar's  Daughter . 

have  been.  Presently  she  turned  down  a  yard  and  dis¬ 
appeared.” 

“  Don’t  tell  my  cousin  Judy,”  I  said.  “She  would  believe 
it  was  Miss  Clare.” 

“  There  isn’t  much  danger,”  he  returned.  “  Even  if  I  knew 
your  cousin,  I  should  not  be  likely  to  mention  such  an  incident 
in  her  hearing.” 

“  Could  it  have  been  she?”  said  Percivale  thoughtfully. 

“Absurd,”  said  Roger.  “  Miss  Clare  is  a  lady,  wherever  she 
may  live.” 

“I  don’t  know,”  said  his  brother,  still  thoughtfully;  “who 
can  tell  ?  It  mightn’t  have  been  beer  she  was  carrying.” 

“  I  didn’t  say  it  was  beer,”  returned  Roger.  “  I  only  said  it 
was  a  beer-jug— one  of  those  brown,  squat,  stone  jugs — the 
best  for  beer  that  I  know,  after  all— brown,  you  know,  with  a 
dash  of  grey.” 

“Brown  jug  or  not,  I  wish  I  could  get  a  few  sittings  from 
her.  She  would  make  a  lovely  St.  Cecilia,”  said  my  husband. 

“  Brown  jug  and  all?  ”  asked  Roger. 

“  If  only  she  were  a  little  taller,”  I  objected. 

“  And  had  an  aureole,”  said  my  husband.  “  But  I  might 
succeed  in  omitting  the  jug  as  well  as  in  adding  the  aureole  and 
another  half  foot  of  stature,  if  only  I  could  get  that  lovely  coun¬ 
tenance  on  the  canvas— so  full  of  life  and  yet  of  repose.” 

“  Don’t  you  think  it  a  little  hard  ?  ”  I  ventured  to  say. 

“  I  think  so,”  said  Roger. 

“  I  don’t,”  said  my  husband.  “  I  know  what  in  it  looks  like 
hardness ;  but  I  think  it  comes  of  the  repression  of  feeling.” 

“  You  have  studied  her  well  for  your  opportunities,”  I  said. 

“  I  have  ;  and  I  am  sure,  whatever  Mrs.  Morley  may  say, 
that,  if  there  be  any  truth  at  all  in  those  reports,  there  is 
some  satisfactory  explanation  of  whatever  has  given  rise  to 
them.  I  wish  we  knew  anybody  else  that  knew  her.  Do  try 
to  find  some  one  that  does,  Wynnie.” 

“  I  don’t  know  how  to  set  about  it,”  I  said.  “  I  should 
be  only  too  glad.” 


Rumours . 


IOI 


u  I  will  try,”  said  Roger.  “  Does  she  sing  ?  w 

“I  have  heard  Judy  say  she  sang  divinely;  but  the  only 
occasion  on  which  I  met  her — at  their  house,  that  time  you 
couldn’t  go,  Percivale — she  was  never  asked  to  sing.” 

“  I  suspect,”  remarked  Roger,  “  it  will  turn  out  to  be  only 
that  she’s  something  of  a  Bohemian  like  ourselves.” 

“  Thank  you,  Roger ;  but  for  my  part  I  don’t  consider  my¬ 
self  a  Bohemian  at  all,”  I  said. 

“  I  am  afraid  you  must  rank  with  your  husband,  wifie,”  said 
mine ,  as  the  wives  of  the  working  people  of  London  often  call 
their  husbands. 

“  Then  you  do  count  yourself  a  Bohemian  :  pray  what  signi¬ 
ficance  do  you  attach  to  the  epithet  ?  ”  I  asked. 

“  I  don’t  know,  except  it  signifies  our  resemblance  to  the 
gipsies,”  he  answered. 

“  I  don’t  understand  you  quite.” 

“  I  believe  the  gipsies  used  to  be  considered  Bohemians,”  in¬ 
terposed  Roger,  “  though  they  are  doubtless  of  Indian  origin. 
Their  usages  being  quite  different  from  those  amongst  which 
they  live,  the  name  Bohemian  came  to  be  applied  to  painters, 
musicians,  and  such  like  generally,  to  whom,  save  by  cour¬ 
tesy,  no  position  has  yet  been  accorded  by  society — so  called.” 

“  But  why  have  they  not  yet  vindicated  for  themselves  a 
social  position — and  that  a  high  one?  ”  I  asked. 

“  Because  they  are  generally  poor,  I  suppose,”  he  answered ; 
“  and  society  is  generally  stupid.” 

“  May  it  not  be  because  they  are  so  often,  like  the  gipsies, 
lawless  in  their  behaviour,  as  well  as  peculiar  in  their  habits?  ” 
I  suggested. 

“I  understand  you,  perfectly,  Mrs.  Percivale,”  rejoined 
Roger,  with  mock  offence.  “  But  how  would  that  apply  to 
Charlie?” 

“  Not  so  well  as  to  you,  I  confess,”  I  answered.  “  But  there 
is  ground  for  it  with  him  too.” 

“  I  have  thought  it  all  over  many  a  time,”  said  Percivale, 
“  and  I  suppose  it  comes  in  part  from  inability  to  under- 


102 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter . 

stand  the  worth  of  our  calling,  and  in  part  from  the  difficulty 
of  knowing  where  to  put  us.” 

“  I  suspect,”  1  said,  “  one  thing  is  that  so  many  of  them 
are  content  to  be  received  as  painters  merely,  or  whatever 
they  may  be  by  profession.  Many,  for  instance,  you  have  told 
me,  accept  invitations  which  do  not  include  their  wives.” 

“  They  often  go  to  parties,  of  course,  where  there  are  no 
ladies,”  said  Roger. 

“  That  is  not  what  I  mean,”  I  replied.  “  They  go  to  dinner¬ 
parties  where  there  are  ladies,  and  evening  parties,  too,  without 
their  wives.” 

“  Whoever  does  that,”  said  Percivale,  “  has  at  least  no  right 
to  complain  that  he  is  regarded  as  a  Bohemian ;  for  in  accept¬ 
ing  such  invitations,  he  accepts  insult,  and  himself  insults  his 
wife.” 

Nothing  irritated  my  bear  so  much  as  to  be  asked  to  dinner 
without  me.  He  would  not  even  offer  the  shadow  of  a  reason 
for  declining  the  invitation.  “  For,”  lie  would  say,  “  if  I  give 
the  real  reason,  namely,  that  I  do  not  choose  to  go  where  my 
wife  is  excluded,  they  will  set  it  down  to  her  jealous  ambition  of 
entering  a  sphere  beyond  her  reach  ;  I  will  not  give  a  false 
reason,  and  indeed  have  no  objection  to  their  seeing  that  I  am 
offended  ;  therefore,  I  assign  none.  If  they  have  any  chivalry 
in  them,  they  may  find  out  my  reason  readily  enough.” 

I  don’t  think  I  ever  displeased  him  so  much  as  once  when  I 
entreated  him  to  accept  an  invitation  to  dine  with  the  Earl  of 
H - .  The  fact  was,  I  had  been  fancying  it  my  duty  to  per¬ 

suade  him  to  get  over  his  offence  at  the  omission  of  my  name, 
for  the  sake  of  the  advantage  it  would  be  to  him  in  his  profes¬ 
sion.  I  laid  it  before  him  as  gently  and  coaxingly  as  I  could, 
representing  how  expenses  increased,  and  how  the  children 
would  be  requiring  education  by-and-by — reminding  him  that 
the  reputation  of  more  than  one  of  the  most  popular  painters 
had  been  brought  about  in  some  measure  by  their  social 
qualities  and  the  friendships  they  made. 

“  Is  it  likely  your  children  will  be  ladies  and  gentlemen,”  he 


Rumours.  103 

said,  “  if  you  prevail  on  their  father  to  play  the  part  of  a  sneak¬ 
ing  parasite  ?  ” 

I  was  frightened.  He  had  never  spoken  to  me  in  such  a 
tone,  but  I  saw  too  well  how  deeply  he  was  hurt  to  take  offence 
at  his  roughness.  I  could  only  beg  him  to  forgive  me,  and  pro¬ 
mise  never  to  say  such  a  word  again,  assuring  him  that  I  be¬ 
lieved  as  strongly  as  himself  that  the  best  heritage  of  children 
was  their  father’s  honour. 

Free  from  any  such  clogs  as  the  possession  of  a  wife  en¬ 
cumbers  a  husband  withal,  Roger  could  of  course  accept  what 
invitations  his  connexion  with  an  old  and  honourable  family 
procured  him.  One  evening  he  came  in  late  from  a  dinner  at 
Lady  Bernard’s. 

“Whom  do  you  think  I  took  down  to  dinner?”  he  asked, 
almost  before  he  was  seated. 

“  Lady  Bernard  ?  ”  I  said,  flying  high. 

“  Her  dowager  aunt?  ”  said  Percivale. 

“  No,  no — Miss  Clare.” 

“  Miss  Clare  !  ”  we  both  repeated,  with  mingled  question  and 
exclamation. 

“  Yes,  Miss  Clare — incredible  as  it  may  appear,”  he  answered. 

“  Did  you  ask  her  if  it  was  she  you  saw  carrying  the  jug  of 
beer  in  Tottenham  Court  Road  ?  ”  said  Percivale. 

“  Did  you  ask  her  address  ?  ”  I  said.  “  That  is  a  question 
more  worthy  of  an  answer.” 

“  Yes,  I  did.  I  believe  I  did.  I  think  I  did.” 

“  What  is  it,  then  ?  ” 

“LTpon  my  word,  I  haven’t  the  slightest  idea.” 

“  So,  Mr.  Roger  !  You  have  had  a  perfect  opportunity,  and 
have  let  it  slip  !  You  are  a  man  to  be  trusted  indeed  !  ” 

“ 1  don’t  know  how  it  could  have  been.  I  distinctly  re¬ 
member  approaching  the  subject  more  than  once  or  twice ; 
and  now  first  I  discover  that  I  never  asked  the  que^ion.  Or  if 
1  did,  I  am  certain  I  got  no  answer.” 

“  Bewitched.” 

“  Yes — I  suppose  so.” 


104  The  Vicar's  Daughter . 

“  Or,”  suggested  Percivale,  “  she  did  not  choose  to  tell  you— 
saw  the  question  coming,  and  led  you  away  from  it — never  let 
you  ask  it.” 

“  I  have  heard  that  ladies  can  keep  one  from  saying  what  they 
don’t  want  to  hear.  But  she  shan’t  escape  me  so  a  second  time.” 

“  Indeed,  you  don’t  deserve  another  chance,”  I  said. 
“  You’re  not  half  so  clever  as  I  took  you  to  be,  Roger.” 

“  When  I  think  of  it,  though — it  wasn’t  a  question  so  easy 
to  ask,  or  one  you  would  like  to  be  overheard  asking.” 

“  Clearly  bewitched,”  I  said.  “  But  for  that  I  forgive  you. 
Did  she  sing  ?  ” 

“  No.  I  don’t  suppose  any  one  there  ever  thought  of  asking 
such  a  dingy-feathered  bird  to  sing.” 

“  You  had  some  music  ?  ” 

“  Oh,  yes.  Pretty  good,  and  very  bad.  Miss  Clare’s  forehead 
was  crossed  by  no  end  of  flickering  shadows  as  she  listened.” 

“  It  wasn’t  for  want  of  interest  in  her  you  forgot  to  find  out 
where  she  lived  !  You  had  better  take  care,  Master  Roger.” 

“  Take  care  of  what  ?  ” 

“  Why,  you  don’t  know  her  address.” 

“  What  has  that  to  do  with  taking  care  ?  ” 

“That  you  won’t  know  where  to  find  your  heart  if  you 
should  happen  to  want  it.” 

“  Oh  !  I’m  past  that  kind  of  thing  long  ago.  You’ve  made 
an  uncle  of  me.” 

And  so  on,  with  a  good  deal  more  nonsense,  but  no  news  of 
Miss  Clare’s  retreat. 

I  had  before  this  remarked  to  my  husband  that  it  was  odd 
she  had  never  called  since  dining  with  us  ;  but  he  made 
little  of  it,  saying  that  people  who  gained  their  own  livelihood 
ought  to  be  excused  from  attending  to  rules  which  had  their 
origin  with  another  class ;  and  I  had  thought  no  more  about  it, 
save  in  disappointment  that  she  had  not  given  me  that  oppor¬ 
tunity  of  improving  my  acquaintance  with  her* 


A  Discovery . 


105 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

A  DISCOVERY. 

One  Saturday  night,  my  husband  happening  to  be  out,  an 
event  of  rare  occurrence,  Roger  called  ;  and  as  there  were  some 
things  I  had  not  been  able  to  get  during  the  day,  I  asked  him 
to  go  with  me  to  Tottenham  Court  Road.  It  was  not  far  from 
the  region  where  we  lived,  and  I  did  a  great  part  of  my  small 
shopping  there.  The  early  closing  had,  if  I  remember  rightly, 
begun  to  show  itself — anyhow  several  of  the  shops  were  shut, 
and  we  walked  a  long  way  down  the  street,  looking  for  some 
place  likely  to  supply  what  I  required. 

“  It  was  just  here  I  came  up  with  the  girl  and  the  brown 
jug,”  said  Roger,  as  we  reached  the  large  dissenting  chapel. 

“  That  adventure  seems  to  have  taken  a  great  hold  of  you, 
Roger,”  I  said. 

“  She  was  so  like  Miss  Clare  !  ”  he  returned.  “  I  can’t  get 
the  one  face  clear  of  the  other.  When  I  met  her  at  Lady 
Bernard’s,  the  first  thing  I  thought  of  was  the  brown  jug.” 

“  Were  you  as  much  pleased  with  her  conversation  as  at  our 
house?”  I  asked. 

“  Even  more,”  he  answered.  “  I  found  her  ideas  of  art  so 
wide,  as  well  as  just  and  accurate,  that  I  was  puzzled  to  think 
where  she  had  had  opportunity  of  developing  them.  I  ques¬ 
tioned  her  about  it,  and  found  she  was  in  the  habit  of  going, 
as  often  as  she  could  spare  time,  to  the  National  Gallery,  where 
her  custom  was,  she  said,  not  to  pass  from  picture  to  picture, 
but  keep  to  one  until  it  formed  itself  in  her  mind — that  is  the 
expression  she  used — explaining  herself  to  mean — until  she 
seemed  to  know  what  the  painter  had  set  himself  to  do,  and 
why  this  was  and  that  was  which  she  could  not  at  first  under¬ 
stand.  Clearly,  without  ever  having  taken  a  pencil  in  her  hand 
she  has  educated  herself  to  a  keen  perception  of  what  is  de¬ 
manded  of  a  true  picture.  Of  course  the  root  of  it  lies  in  her 


io6  The  Vicars  Daughter . 

musical  development.  There,”  he  cried  suddenly,  as  we  came 
opposite  a  paved  passage,  “  that  is  the  place  I  saw  her  go 
down.” 

“Then  you  do  think  the  girl  with  the  beer-jug  was  Miss 
Clare  after  all  ?  ” 

“  Not  in  the  least.  I  told  you  I  could  not  separate  them 
in  my  mind.” 

“  Well,  I  must  say,  it  seems  odd.  A  girl  like  that  and  Miss 
Clare  !  Why,  as  often  as  you  speak  of  the  one,  you  seem  to 
think  of  the  other.” 

“  In  fact,”  he  returned,  “  I  am,  as  I  say,  unable  to  dissociate 
them.  But  if  you  had  seen  the  girl,  you  would  not  wonder. 
The  likeness  was  absolutely  complete.” 

“  I  believe  you  do  consider  them  one  and  the  same ;  and 
I’m  more  than  half  inclined  to  think  so  myself,  remembering 
what  Judy  said.” 

“  Isn’t  it  possible  some  one  who  knew  Miss  Clare,  may  have 
seen  this  girl,  and  been  misled  by  the  likeness  ?  ” 

“  But  where,  then,  does  Miss  Clare  live  ?  “  Nobody  seems 

to  know.” 

“You  have  never  asked  any  one  but  Mrs.  Morley.” 

“  You  have  yourself,  however,  given  me  reason  to  think  she 
avoids  the  subject.  If  she  did  live  anywhere  hereabout,  she 
would  have  some  cause  to  avoid  it.” 

I  had  stopped  to  look  down  the  passage. 

“  Suppose,”  said  Roger,  “  some  one  were  to  come  past  now 
and  see  Mrs.  Percivale,  the  wife  of  the  celebrated  painter, 
standing  in  Tottenham  Court  Road,  beside  the  swing-door  of  a 
corner  public-house,  talking  to  a  young  man — ” 

“Yes;  it  might  give  occasion  for  scandal,”  I  said.  “To 
avoid  it,  let  us  go  down  the  court  and  see  what  it  is 
like.” 

“  It’s  not  a  fit  place  for  you  to  go  into.” 

“If  it  were  in  my  father’s  parish,  I  should  have  known 
everybody  in  it.” 

“  You  haven’t  the  slightest  idea  what  you  are  saying.’* 


A  Discovery .  107 

"  Come  anyhow,  and  let  us  see  what  the  place  is  like,”  I 
insisted. 

Without  another  word,  he  gave  me  his  arm,  and  down  the 
court  we  went,  past  the  flaring  gin-shop,  and  into  the  gloom 
beyond.  It  was  one  of  those  places  of  which  while  the  general 
effect  remains  vivid  in  one’s  mind,  the  salient  points  are  so 
few  that  it  is  difficult  to  say  much  by  way  of  description.  The 
houses  had  once  been  occupied  by  people  in  better  circum¬ 
stances  than  its  present  inhabitants,  and  indeed  they  looked 
all  decent  enough  until  turning  two  right  angles  we  came  upon 
another  sort.  They  were  still  as  large,  and  had  plenty  of  win¬ 
dows,  but  in  the  light  of  a  single  lamp  at  the  corner,  they  looked 
very  dirty  and  wretched  and  dreary.  A  little  shop,  with  dried 
herrings  and  bull’s-eyes  in  the  window,  was  lighted  by  a  tallow 
candle  set  in  a  ginger-beer  bottle,  with  a  card  of  “  Kinahan’s 
LL  Whisky  ”  for  a  reflector. 

“  They  can’t  have  many  customers  to  the  extent  of  a  bottle,” 
said  Roger.  “  But  no  doubt  they  have  some  privileges  from  the 
public-house  at  the  corner  for  hanging  up  the  card.” 

The  houses  had  sunk  areas,  just  wide  enough  for  a  stair, 
and  the  basements  seemed  full  of  tenants.  There  was  a  little 
wind  blowing,  so  that  the  atmosphere  was  tolerable,  notwith¬ 
standing  a  few  stray  leaves  of  cabbage,  suggestive  of  others  in 
a  more  objectionable  condition  not  far  off. 

A  confused  noise  of  loud  voices,  calling  and  scolding,  hither¬ 
to  drowned  by  the  tumult  of  the  street,  now  reached  our  ears. 
The  place  took  one  turn  more,  and  then  the  origin  of  it  became 
apparent.  At  the  further  end  of  the  passage  was  another  lamp, 
the  light  of  which  shone  upon  a  group  of  men  and  women,  in 
altercation,  w’hich  had  not  yet  come  to  blows.  It  might,  in¬ 
cluding  children,  have  numbered  twenty,  of  which  some  seemed 
drunk  and  all  more  or  less  excited.  Roger  turne-d  to  go  back 
the  moment  he  caught  sight  of  them,  but  I  felt  inclined,  I 
hardly  knew  why,  to  linger  a  little.  Should  any  danger  offer, 
it  would  be  easy  to  gain  the  open  thoroughfare. 

“  It’s  not  at  all  a  fit  place  for  a  lady,”  he  said. 


10S  The  Vicar's  Daughter . 

“  Certainly  not,”  I  answered  ;  “  it  hardly  seems  a  fit  place 
for  human  beings.  These  are  human  beings,  though.  Let  us 
go  through  it.” 

He  still  hesitated ;  but  as  I  went  on,  he  could  but  follow 
me.  I  wanted  to  see  what  the  attracting  centre  of  the  little 
crowd  was ;  and  that  it  must  be  occupied  with  some  affair  of 
more  than  ordinary  interest,  I  judged  from  the  fact  that  a  good 
many  super-terrestrial  spectators  looked  down  from  the  win¬ 
dows  at  various  elevations  upon  the  disputants,  whose  voices 
now  and  then  lulled  for  a  moment  only  to  break  out  in  fresh 
objurgation  and  dispute. 

Drawing  a  little  nearer,  a  slight  parting  of  the  crowd  revealed 
its  core  to  us.  It  was  a  little  woman,  without  bonnet  or  shawl, 
whose  back  was  towards  us.  She  turned  from  side  to  side, 
now  talking  to  one,  and  now  to  another  of  the  surrounding 
circle.  At  first  I  thought  she  was  setting  forth  her  grievances, 
in  the  hope  of  sympathy,  or  perhaps  of  justice;  but  I  soon 
perceived  that  her  motions  were  too  calm  for  that.  Some¬ 
times  the  crowd  would  speak  all  together,  sometimes  keep  silent 
for  a  full  minute  while  she  went  on  talking.  When  she  turned 
her  face  towards  us,  Roger  and  I  turned  ours,  and  stared  at 
each  other.  The  face  was  disfigured  by  a  swollen  eye,  evi¬ 
dently  from  a  blow ;  but  clearly  enough,  if  it  was  not  Miss 
Clare,  it  was  the  young  woman  of  the  beer-jug.  Neither  of  us 
spoke,  but  turned  once  more  to  watch  the  result  of  what  seemed 
to  have  at  length  settled  down  into  an  almost  amicable  con¬ 
ference. 

After  a  few  more  grumbles  and  protestations,  the  group 
began  to  break  up  into  threes  and  fours.  These  the  young 
woman  seemed  to  set  herself  to  break  up  again.  Here,  how¬ 
ever,  an  ill-looking  fellow  like  a  costermonger,  with  a  broken 
nose,  came  up  to  11s,  and,  with  a  strong  Irish  accent  and  offen¬ 
sive  manner,  but  still  with  a  touch  of  Irish  breeding,  requested 
to  know  what  our  business  was.  Roger  asked  if  the  place 
wasn’t  a  thoroughfare. 

“  Not  for  the  likes  o’  you,”  he  answered,  “as  comes  pryin' 


A  Discovery .  109 

after  the  likes  of  us.  We  manage  our  own  affairs  down  here — 
we  do.  You’d  better  be  off,  my  lady.” 

I  have  my  doubts  what  sort  of  reply  Roger  might  have  re¬ 
turned  if  he  had  been  alone,  but  he  certainly  spoke  in  a  very 
conciliatory  manner,  which,  however,  the  man  did  not  seem  to 
appreciate,  for  he  called  it  blarney  ;  but  the  young  woman, 
catching  sight  of  our  little  group,  and  supposing,  I  presume, 
that  it  also  required  dispersion,  approached  us.  She  had  come 
within  a  yard  of  us,  when  suddenly  her  face  brightened,  and 
she  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of  surprise, — 

“  Mrs.  Percivale  !  You  here  !” 

It  was  indeed  Miss  Clare.  Without  the  least  embarrassment, 
she  held  out  her  hand  to  me,  but  I  am  afraid  I  did  not  take  it 
very  cordially.  Roger,  however,  behaved  to  her  as  if  they 
stood  in  a  drawing-room,  and  this  brought  me  to  a  sense  of 
propriety. 

“  I  don’t  look  very  respectable,  I  fear,”  she  said,  putting  her 
hand  over  her  eye.  “  The  fact  is,  I  have  had  a  blow,  and  it 
will  look  worse  to-morrow.  Were  you  coming  to  find 
me?” 

I  forget  what  lame  answer  either  of  us  gave. 

“  Will  you  come  in  ?  ”  she  said. 

On  the  spur  of  the  moment,  I  declined.  For  all  my  fine 
talk  to  Roger,  I  shrunk  from  the  idea  of  entering  one  of  those 
houses.  I  can  only  say,  in  excuse,  that  my  whole  mind  was  in 
a  condition  of  bewilderment. 

“  Can  I  do  anything  for  you,  then  ?  ”  she  asked,  in  a  tone 
slightly  marked  with  disappointment,  I  thought. 

“  Thank  you,  no,”  I  answered,  hardly  knowing  what  my 
words  were. 

“Then  good-night,”  she  said,  and,  nodding  kindly,  turned, 
and  entered  one  of  the  houses. 

We  also  turned  in  silence,  and  walked  out  of  the  court. 

“  Why  didn’t  you  go  with  her  ?  ”  said  Roger,  as  soon  as  we 
were  in  the  street. 

“  I’m  sorry  I  didn’t  if  you  wanted  to  go,  Roger ;  but—” 


HO  The  Vicar's  Daughter. 

“  I  think  you  might  have  gone,  seeing  I  was  with  you,”  he 
said. 

“  I  don’t  think  it  would  have  been  at  all  a  proper  thing  to 
do,  without  knowing  more  about  her,”  I  answered,  a  little  hurt. 
“  You  can’t  tell  what  sort  of  a  place  it  may  be.” 

“  It  s  a  good  place  wherever  she  is,  or  I  am  much  mistaken,” 
he  returned. 

“  You  may  be  much  mistaken,  Roger.” 

“  True.  I  have  been  mistaken  more  than  once  in  my  life. 
I  am  not  mistaken  this  time  though.” 

“  I  presume  you  would  have  gone  if  I  hadn’t  been  with  you?” 

“  Certainly,  if  she  had  asked  me,  which  is  not  very  likely.” 

“  And  you  lay  the  disappointment  of  missing  a  glimpse  into 
the  sweet  privacy  of  such  a  home  to  my  charge  ?  ” 

It  was  a  spiteful  speech,  and  Roger’s  silence  made  me  feel 
it  was,  which,  with  the  rather  patronizing  opinion  I  had  of 
Roger,  I  found  not  a  little  galling.  So  I  too  kept  silence,  and 
nothing  beyond  a  platitude  had  passed  between  us  when  I  found 
myself  at  my  own  door,  my  shopping  utterly  forgotten,  and 
something  acid  on  my  mind. 

“  Don’t  you  mean  to  come  in  ?  ”  I  said,  for  he  held  out  his 
hand  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  to  bid  me  good-night.  “  My  hus¬ 
band  will  be  home  soon,  if  he  has  not  come  already.  You 
needn’t  be  bored  with  my  company — you  can  sit  in  the  study.” 

“  I  think  I  had  better  not,”  he  answered. 

“  I  am  very  sorry,  Roger,  if  I  was  rude  to  you,”  I  said ; 
“  but  how  could  you  wish  me  to  be  hand-and-glove  with  a 
woman  who  visits  people  who  she  is  well  aware  would  not  think 
of  inviting  her  if  they  had  a  notion  of  her  surroundings  ?  That 
can’t  be  right,  I  am  certain.  I  protest  I  feel  just  as  if  I  had 
been  reading  an  ill-invented  story — an  unnatural  fiction.  I 
cannot  get  these  things  together  in  my  mind  at  all,  do  what  I 
will.” 

“  There  must  be  some  way  of  accounting  for  it,”  said  Roger. 

“  No  doubt,”  I  returned ;  “  but  who  knows  what  that  way 
may  be  ?  ” 


Ill 


A  Discovery. 

“  You  may  be  wrong  in  supposing  that  the  people  at  whose 
houses  she  visits  know  nothing  about  her  habits.” 

“  Is  it  at  all  likely  they  do,  Roger?  Do  you  think  it  is  ?  I 
know  at  least  that  my  cousin  dispensed  with  her  services  as 
soon  as  she  came  to  the  knowledge  of  certain  facts  concerning 
these  very  points.” 

“  Excuse  me — certain  rumours — very  uncertain  facts.” 

When  you  are  cross,  the  slightest  play  upon  words  is  an  offence. 
I  knocked  at  the  door  in  dudgeon,  then  turned  and  said, — 

“  My  cousin  Judy,  Mr.  Roger — ” 

But  here  I  paused,  for  I  had  nothing  rea-dy.  Anger  makes 
some  people  cleverer  for  the  moment,  but  when  I  am  angry  I 
am  always  stupid.  Roger  finished  the  sentence  for  me. 

“ — Your  cousin  Judy  is,  you  must  allow,  a  very  conventional 
woman,”  he  said. 

“  She  is  very  good-natured  anyhow.  And  what  do  you  say 
to  Lady  Bernard  ?  ” 

“  She  hasn’t  repudiated  Miss  Clare’s  acquaintance,  so  far  as 
I  know.” 

“  But,  answer  me — do  you  believe  Lady  Bernard  would  in¬ 
vite  her  to  meet  her  friends  if  she  knew  all  ?  ” 

“  Depend  upon  it,  Lady  Bernard  knows  what  she  is  about. 
People  of  her  rank  can  afford  to  be  unconventional.” 

This  irritated  me  yet  more,  for  it  implied  that  I  was  influenced 
by  the  conventionality  which  both  he  and  my  husband  despised, 
and  Sarah  opening  the  door  that  instant,  I  stepped  in,  without 
even  saying  good-night  to  him.  Before  she  closed  it,  however, 
I  heard  my  husband’s  voice,  and  ran  out  again  to  welcome  him. 

He  and  Roger  had  already  met  in  the  little  front  garden. 
They  did  not  shake  hands — they  never  did  — they  always  met 
as  if  they  had  parted  only  an  hour  ago. 

“  What  were  you  and  my  wife  quarrelling  about,  Rodge  ?  ” 
I  heard  Percivale  ask,  and  paused  on  the  middle  of  the  stair  to 
hear  his  answer. 

“  How  do  you  know  we  were  quarrelling  ?  ”  returned  Roger 
gloomily. 


1 12  The  Vicar  s  Daughter. 

“  I  heard  you  from  the  very  end  of  the  street,”  said  my 
husband. 

“That’s  not  so  far,”  said  Roger;  for  indeed  one  house,  with, 
I  confess,  a  good  space  of  garden  on  each  side  of  it,  and  the 
end  of  another  house  finished  the  street.  But  notwithstanding 
the  shortness  of  the  distance,  it  stung  me  to  the  quick.  Here 
had  I  been  regarding,  not  even  with  contempt,  only  with  dis¬ 
gust,  the  quarrei  in  which  Miss  Clare  was  mixed  up  ;  and  half 
an  hour  after,  my  own  voice  was  heard  in  dispute  with  my  hus¬ 
band’s  brother,  from  the  end  of  the  street  in  which  we  lived  ! 
I  felt  humiliated,  and  did  not  rush  down  the  remaining  half  of 
the  steps  to  implore  my  husband’s  protection  against  Roger’s 
crossness. 

“  Too  far  to  hear  a  wife  and  a  brother  though,”  returned 
Percivale  jocosely. 

“  Go  on,”  said  Roger  ;  “  pray  go  on.  Let  dogs  delight  comes 
next.  I  beg  Mrs.  Percivale’s  pardon.  I  will  amend  the 
quotation  :  4  Let  dogs  delight  to  worry — *  ” 

“  Cats,”  I  exclaimed ;  and  rushing  down  the  steps,  I  kissed 
Roger  before  I  kissed  my  husband. 

“  I  meant — I  mean — I  was  going  to  say  lambs,”  said  Roger. 

“Now,  Roger,  don’t  add  to  your  vices  flattery  and — ” 

“And  fibbing,”  he  subjoined. 

“  I  didn’t  say  so.” 

“You  only  meant  it.” 

“  Don’t  begin  again,”  interposed  Percivale.  “  Come  in,  and 
refer  the  cause  in  dispute  to  me.” 

We  did  go  in,  and  we  did  refer  the  matter  to  him.  By  the 
time  we  had  between  us  told  him  the  facts  of  the  case,  however, 
the  point  in  dispute  between  us  appeared  to  have  grown  hazy, 
the  fact  being  that  neither  of  us  cared  to  say  anything  more 
about  it.  Percivale  insisted  that  there  was  no  question  before 
the  court.  At  length  Roger,  turning  from  me  to  his  brother, 
said,— 

“  It’s  not  worth  mentioning,  Charley,  but  what  led  to  our 
irreconcilable  quarrel  was  this  :  I  thought  Wynnie  might  have 


Miss  Clare . 


1 13 

accepted  Miss  Clare’s  invitation  to  walk  in  and  pay  her  a  visit; 
and  Wynnie  thought  me,  I  suppose,  too  ready  to  sacrifice  her 
dignity  to  the  pleasure  of  seeing  a  little  more  of  the  object  of 
our  altercation.  There  !  ” 

My  husband  turned  to  me  and  said  : 

“  Mrs.  Percivale,  do  you  accept  this  as  a  correct  representa¬ 
tion  of  your  difference  ?  ” 

“  Well,”  I  answered,  hesitating — “  yes,  on  the  whole.  All 
I  object  to  is  the  word  dignity .” 

“  I  retract  it,”  cried  Roger,  “and  accept  any  substitute  you 
prefer.” 

“  Let  it  stand,”  I  returned.  “  It  will  do  as  well  as  a  better. 
I  only  wish  to  say  that  it  was  not  exactly  my  dignity — ” 

u  No,  no  ;  your  sense  of  propriety,”  said  my  husband;  and 
then  sat  silent  for  a  minute  or  two,  pondering  like  a  judge. 
At  length  he  spoke  : 

“  Wife,”  he  said,  “  you  might  have  gone  with  your  brother, 
I  think ;  but  I  quite  understand  your  disinclination.  At  the 
same  time,  a  more  generous  judgment  of  Miss  Clare  might 
have  prevented  any  difference  of  feeling  in  the  matter.” 

“  But,”  I  said,  greatly  inclined  to  cry,  “  I  only  postponed 
my  judgment  concerning  her.” 

And  I  only  postponed  my  crying,  for  I  was  very  much 
ashamed  of  myself 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

MISS  CLARE. 

Of  course  my  husband  and  I  talked  a  good  deal  more  about 
what  I  ought  to  have  done,  and  I  saw  clearly  enough  that  I 
ought  to  have  run  any  risk  there  might  be  in  accepting  her 
invitation.  I  had  been  foolishly  taking  more  care  of  myself 
than  was  necessary.  I  told  him  I  would  write  to  Roger  and 
ask  him  when  he  could  take  me  there  again. 


1 14  The  Vicar's  Daughter. 

“  I  will  tell  you  a  better  plan,”  he  said.  “  I  will  go  with  you 
myself.  And  that  will  get  rid  of  half  the  awkwardness  there 
would  be  if  you  went  with  Roger,  after  having  with  him  refused 
to  go  in.” 

“  But  would  that  be  fair  to  Roger  ?  She  would  think  I 
didn’t  like  going  with  him,  and  I  would  go  with  Roger  any¬ 
where.  It  was  I  who  did  not  want  to  go.  He  did.” 

“  My  plan,  however,  will  pave  the  way  for  a  full  explana¬ 
tion — or  confession  rather,  I  suppose  it  will  turn  out  to  be.  I 
know  you  are  burning  to  make  it — with  your  mania  for  con 
fessing  your  faults.” 

I  knew  he  did  not  like  me  the  worse  for  that  mania  though. 

“  The  next  time,”  he  added,  “  you  can  go  with  Roger,  always 
supposing  you  should  feel  inclined  to  continue  the  acquaint¬ 
ance,  and  then  you  will  be  able  to  set  him  right  in  her  eyes.” 

The  plan  seemed  unobjectionable.  But  just  then  Percivale 
was  very  busy,  and  I  being  almost  as  much  occupied  with  my 
baby  as  he  with  his,  day  after  day  and  week  after  week  passed, 
during  which  our  duty  to  Miss  Clare  was,  I  will  not  say 
either  forgotten  or  neglected,  but  unfulfilled. 

One  afternoon  I  was  surprised  by  a  visit  from  my  father. 
He  not  unfrequently  surprised  u£ 

“  Why  didn’t  you  let  us  know,  papa?”  I  said.  “  A  surprise 
is  very  nice,  but  an  expectation  is  much  nicer,  and  lasts  so 
much  longer.” 

“  I  might  have  disappointed  you.” 

“  Even  if  you  had,  I  should  have  already  enjoyed  the 
expectation.  That  would  be  safe.” 

“  There’s  a  good  deal  to  be  said  in  excuse  of  surprises,”  he 
rejoined,  “  but  in  the  present  case,  I  have  a  special  one  to 
offer.  I  was  taken  with  a  sudden  desire  to  see  you.  It  was 
very  foolish  no  doubt,  and  you  are  quite  right  in  wishing  I 
weren’t  here,  only  going  to  come  to-morrow.” 

“  Don't  be  so  cruel,  papa.  Scarcely  a  day  passes  in  which 
/do  not  long  to  see  you.  My  baby  makes  me  think  more 
about  my  home  than  ever.” 


Miss  Clare. 


115 

“  Then  she’s  a  very  healthy  baby,  if  one  may  judge  by  her 
influences.  But  you  know,  if  I  had  to  give  you  warning,  I 
could  not  have  been  here  before  to-morrow,  and  surely  you 
will  acknowledge  that  however  nice  expectation  may  be,  pre¬ 
sence  is  better.” 

“Yes,  papa.  We  will  make  a  compromise,  if  you  please. 
Every  time  you  think  of  coming  to  me,  you  must  either  come  at 
once,  or  let  me  know  you  are  coming.  Do  you  agree  to  that  ?  ” 

“  I  agree,”  he  said. 

So  I  have  the  pleasure  of  a  constant  expectation.  Any  day 
he  may  walk  in  unheralded ;  or  by  any  post  I  may  receive  a 
letter  with  the  news  that  he  is  coming  at  such  a  time. 

As  we  sat  at  dinner  that  evening,  he  asked  if  we  had  lately 
seen  Miss  Clare. 

“  I’ve  seen  her  only  once,  and  Percivale  not  at  all,  since 
you  were  here  last,  papa,”  I  answered. 

“  How’s  that  ?  ”  he  asked  again,  a  little  surprised.  “  Haven’t 
you  got  her  address  yet  ?  I  want  very  much  to  know  more  of 
her.” 

“  So  do  we.  I  haven’t  got  her  address,  but  I  know  where 
she  lives.” 

“  What  do  you  mean,  Wynnie  ?  Has  she  taken  to  dark 
sayings  of  late,  Percivale  ?  ” 

I  told  him  the  whole  story  of  my  adventure  with  Roger,  and 
the  reports  Judy  had  prejudiced  my  judgment  withal.  He 
heard  me  through  in  silence,  for  it  was  a  rule  with  him  never  to 
interrupt  a  narrator.  He  used  to  say,  “  You  will  generally  get 
at  more,  and  in  a  better  fashion,  if  you  let  any  narrative  take 
its  own  devious  course,  without  the  interruption  of  requested 
explanations.  By  the  time  it  is  over,  you  will  find  the  questions 
you  wanted  to  ask  mostly  vanished.” 

“  Describe  the  place  to  me,  Wynnie,”  he  said,  when  I  had 
ended.  “  I  must  go  and  see  her.  I  have  a  suspicion  amounting 
almost  to  a  conviction  that  she  is  one  whose  acquaintance 
ought  to  be  cultivated  at  any  cost.  There  is  some  grand 
explanation  of  all  this  contradictory  strangeness.” 


1 1 6  The  Vicar's  Daughter . 

“  I  don’t  think  I  could  describe  the  place  to  you  so  that  you 
would  find  it.  But  if  Percivale  wouldn’t  mind  my  going  with 
you  instead  of  with  him,  I  should  be  only  too  happy  to  accom¬ 
pany  you.  May  I,  Percivale  ?  ” 

“  Certainly.  It  will  do  just  as  well  to  go  with  your  father  as 
with  me.  I  only  stipulate  that,  if  you  are  both  satisfied,  you 
take  Roger  with  you  next  time.” 

“  Of  course  I  will.” 

“  Then  we’ll  go  to-morrow  morning,”  said  my  father. 

“  I  don’t  think  she  is  likely  to  be  at  home  in  the  morning,” 
I  said.  “  She  goes  out  giving  lessons,  you  know ;  and  the 
probability  is  that  at  that  time  we  should  not  find  her.” 

“  Then  why  not  to  night  ?  ”  he  rejoined. 

“  Why  not,  if  you  wish  it  ?  ” 

“  I  do  wish  it,  then.” 

“  If  you  knew  the  place,  though,  I  think  you  would  prefer 
going  a  little  earlier  than  we  can  to-night.” 

“  Ah  well,  we  will  go  to-morrow  evening.  We  could  dine 
early,  couldn’t  we  ?  ” 

So  it  was  arranged.  My  father  went  about  some  business  in 
the  morning.  We  dined  early,  and  set  out  about  six  o’clock. 

My  father  was  getting  an  old  man,  and  if  any  protection  had 
been  required,  he  could  not  have  been  half  so  active  as  Roger  ; 
and  yet  I  felt  twice  as  safe  with  him.  I  am  satisfied  that  the 
deepest  sense  of  safety,  even  in  respect  of  physical  dangers,  can 
spring  only  from  moral  causes ;  neither  do  you  half  so  much 
fear  evil  happening  to  you,  as  fear  evil  happening  which  ought 
not  to  happen  to  you.  I  believe  what  made  me  so  courageous 
was  the  undeveloped  fore-feeling  that  if  any  evil  should  over¬ 
take  me  in  my  father’s  company  I  should  not  care ;  it  would 
be  all  right  then,  anyhow.  The  repose  was  in  my  father  himself, 
and  neither  in  his  strength  nor  his  wisdom.  The  former  might 
fail,  the  latter  might  mistake ;  but  so  long  as  I  was  with  him  in 
what  I  did,  no  harm  worth  counting  harm  could  come  to  me 
• — only  such  as  I  should  neither  lament  nor  feel.  Scarcely  a 
shadow  of  danger,  however,  showed  itself. 


Miss  Clare . 


ii  7 


It  was  a  cold  evening  in  the  middle  of  November.  The 
h’ght,  which  had  been  scanty  enough  all  day,  had  vanished  in 
a  thin  penetrating  fog.  Round  every  lamp  in  the  street  was  a 
coloured  halo ;  the  gay  shops  gleamed  like  jewel-caverns  of 
Aladdin  hollowed  out  of  the  darkness ;  and  the  people  that 
hurried  or  sauntered  along  looked  inscrutable.  Where  could 
they  live  ?  Had  they  anybody  to  love  them  ?  Were  their  hearts 
quiet  under  their  dingy  cloaks  and  shabby  coats  ?” 

“  Yes,”  returned  my  father,  to  whom  I  had  said  something 
to  this  effect,  “  what  would  not  one  give  for  a  peep  into  the 
mysteries  of  all  these  worlds  that  go  crowding  past  us  !  If  we 
could  but  see  through  the  opaque  husk  of  them,  some  would 
glitter  and  glow  like  diamond  mines;  others  perhaps  would 
look  mere  earthy  holes  ;  some  of  them  forsaken  quarries,  with 
a  great  pool  of  stagnant  water  in  the  bottom ;  some  like  vast 
coal  pits  of  gloom,  into  which  you  dared  not  carry  a  lighted 
lamp  for  fear  of  explosion.  Some  would  be  mere  lumber-rooms ; 
others  ill-arranged  libraries,  without  a  poet’s  corner  anywhere. 
But  what  a  wealth  of  creation  they  show,  and  what  infinite  room 
for  hope  it  affords !  ” 

“  But  don’t  you  think,  papa,  there  may  be  something  of 
worth  lying  even  in  the  earth  pit,  or  at  the  bottom  of  the  stag¬ 
nant  water  in  the  forsaken  quarry  ?  ” 

“  Indeed  I  do  ;  though  I  have  met  more  than  one  in  my 
lifetime  concerning  whom  I  felt  compelled  to  say  that  it  wanted 
keener  eyes  than  mine  to  discover  the  hidden  jewel.  But  then 
there  a7'e  keener  eyes  than  mine,  for  there  are  more  loving 
eyes.  Myself  I  have  been  able  to  see  good  very  clearly  where 
seme  could  see  none ;  and  shall  I  doubt  that  God  can  see 
good  where  my  mole-eyes  can  see  none  ?  Be  sure  of  this  that 
as  he  is  keen-eyed  for  the  evil  in  his  creatures  to  destroy  it, 
he  would,  if  it  were  possible,  be  yet  keener-eyed  for  the  good 
to  nourish  and  cherish  it.  If  men  would  only  side  with  the 
good  that  is  in  them — will  that  the  seed  should  grow  and  bring 
forth  fruit  !  ” 


The  Vicar's  Daughter , 


1 1 8 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

miss  Clare’s  home. 

We  had  now  arrived  at  the  passage.  The  gin-shop  was  flaring 
through  the  fog.  A  man  in  a  fustian  jacket  came  out  of  it  and 
walked  slowly  down  before  us,  with  the  clay  of  the  brick-field 
clinging  to  him  as  high  as  the  leather  straps  with  which  his 
trousers  were  confined,  garterwise,  under  the  knee.  The  place 
was  quiet.  We  and  the  brickmaker  seemed  the  only  people  in 
it.  When  we  turned  the  last  corner,  he  was  walking  in  at  the 
very  door  where  Miss  Clare  had  disappeared.  When  I  told  my 
father  that  was  the  house,  he  called  after  the  man,  who  came 
out  again,  and  standing  on  the  pavement,  waited  until  we  came 
up. 

“  Does  Miss  Clare  live  in  this  house  ?  ”  my  father  asked. 

“  She  do,”  answered  the  man  curtly. 

“  First  floor  ?  ” 

“  No.  Nor  yet  the  second,  nor  the  third.  She  live  nearer 
heaven  than  ere  another  in  the  house  ’cep’  myself.  I  live  in 
the  attic,  and  so  do  she.” 

“  There  is  a  way  of  living  nearer  to  heaven  than  that,”  said 
my  father,  laying  his  hand,  ‘  with  a  right  old  man’s  grace,’  on 
his  shoulder. 

“I  dunno,  ’cep’  you  was  to  go  up  in  a  belloon,”  said  the 
man,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  which  my  father  took  to  mean 
that  he  understood  him  better  than  he  chose  to  acknowledge ; 
but  he  did  not  pursue  the  figure. 

He  was  a  rough,  lumpish  young  man,  with  good  but  dull 
features— only  his  blue  eye  was  clear.  He  looked  my  father 
full  in  the  face,  and  I  thought  I  saw  a  dim  smile  about  his 
mouth. 

“  You  know  her,  then,  I  suppose  ?  ” 

“  Everybody  in  the  house  knows  her.  There  ain’t  many  the 
likes  o’  her  as  lives  wi’  the  likes  of  us  You  go  right  up  to 


Miss  Clare's  Home . 


119 

the  top.  I  don’t  know  if  she’s  in,  but  a’most  any  one’ll  be  able 
to  tell  you.  I  ’ain’t  been  home  yet.” 

My  father  thanked  him,  and  we  entered  the  house,  and 
began  to  ascend.  The  stair  was  very  much  worn  and  rather 
dirty,  and  some  of  the  banisters  were  broken  away,  but  the 
walls  were  tolerably  clean.  Half-way  up  we  met  a  little  girl 
with  tangled  hair  and  tattered  garments,  carrying  a  bottle. 

“  Do  you  know,  my  dear,”  said  my  father  to  her,  “whether 
Miss  Clare  is  at  home  ?  ” 

“I  dunno,”  she  answered.  “I  dunno  who  you  mean.  I 
been  mindin’ the  baby.  He  ain’t  well.  Mother  says  his  head’s 
bad.  She’s  a-going  up  to  tell  grannie,  and  see  if  she  can’t  do 
suthin’  for  him.  You  better  ask  mother.  Mother  !  ”  she  called 
out — “  here’s  a  lady  an’  a  gen’lem’.” 

“You  go  about  yer  business,  and  be  back  direckly,”  cried  a 
gruff  voice  from  somewhere  above. 

“That’s  mother,”  said  the  child,  and  ran  down  the  stair. 

When  we  reached  the  second  floor,  there  stood  a  big  fat 
woman  on  the  landing,  with  her  face  red,  and  her  hair  looking 
like  that  of  a  doll  ill  stuck  on.  She  did  not  speak,  but  stood 
waiting  to  see  what  we  wanted. 

“  I’m  told  Miss  Clare  lives  here,”  said  my  father.  “Canyon 
tell  me,  my  good  woman,  whether  she’s  at  home?” 

“  I’m  neither  good  woman  nor  bad  woman,”  she  returned  in 
an  insolent  tone. 

“  I  beg  your  pardon,”  said  my  father ;  “  but  you  see  I  didn’t 
know  your  name.” 

“  An’  ye  don’t  know  it  yet.  You’ve  no  call  to  know  my 
name.  I’ll  ha’  nothin’  to  do  wi’  the  likes  o’  you  as  goes  about 
takin’  poor  folk’s  childer  from  ’em.  There’s  my  poor  Cdory’s 
been  an’  took  atwixt  you  an’  grannie,  and  shet  up  in  a  formatory 
as  you  calls  it ;  an’  I  should  like  to  know  what  right  you’ve 
got  to  go  about  that  way  arter  poor  girls  as  has  mothers  to  help.” 

“  I  assure  you  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  it,”  said  my  father. 
“I’m  a  country  clergyman  myself,  and  have  no  duty  in 
London.” 


120 


The  Vicars  Daughter . 

“Well,  that’s  where  they’ve  took  her — down  in  the  country 
I  make  no  doubt  but  you’ve  had  your  finger  in  that  pie.  You 
don’t  come  here  to  call  upon  us  for  the  pleasure  o’  makin’  oui 
acquaintance — ha !  ha !  ha  !  You’re  alius  arter  somethin' 
troublesome.  I’d  adwise  you,  sir  and  miss,  to  let  well  alone. 
Sleepin’  dogs  won’t  bite,  but  you’d  better  let  ’em  lie — and  that 
I  tell  you.” 

“  Believe  me,”  said  my  father  quite  quietly,  “  I  haven’t  the 
least  knowledge  of  your  daughter.  The  country’s  a  bigger 
place  than  you  seem  to  think — far  bigger  than  London  itself. 
All  I  wanted  to  trouble  you  about  was  to  tell  us  whether  Miss 
Clare  was  at  home  or  not.” 

“  I  don’t  know  no  one  o’  that  name.  If  it’s  grannie  you 
mean,  she’s  at  home,  I  know — though  it’s  not  much  reason  I’ve 
got  to  care  whether  she’s  at  home  or  not.” 

“  It’s  a  young — woman,  I  mean,”  said  my  father. 

“  ’Tain’t  a  young  lady  then  ?  Well,  I  don’t  care  what  you 
call  her.  I  daresay  it’ll  be  all  one,  come  the  judgment.  You’d 
better  go  up  till  you  can’t  go  no  further,  an’  knocks  yer  head 
agin  the  tiles,  and  then  you  may  feel  about  for  a  door  and 
knock  at  that,  and  see  if  the  party  as  opens  it  is  the  party  you 
wants.” 

So  saying  she  turned  in  at  a  door  behind  her  and  shut  it. 
But  we  could  hear  her  still  growling  and  grumbling. 

“  It’s  very  odd,”  said  my  father,  with  a  bewildered  smile. 
“  I  think  we’d  better  do  as  she  says,  and  go  up  till  we  knock 
our  heads  against  the  tiles.” 

We  climbed  two  stairs  more — the  last  very  steep,  and  so 
dark  that  when  we  reached  the  top  we  found  it  necessary  to 
follow  the  woman’s  directions  literally,  and  feel  about  for  a  door. 
But  we  had  not  to  feel  long  or  far,  for  there  was  one  close  to 
the  top  of  the  stair.  My  father  knocked.  There  was  no  reply, 
but  we  heard  the  sound  of  a  chair,  and  presently  some  one 
opened  it.  The  only  light  being  behind  her,  I  could  not  see 
her  face,  but  the  size  and  shape  were  those  of  Miss  Clare. 

She  did  not  leave  us  in  doubt,  however,  for,  without  a 


Miss  Clares  Horne . 


12 1 


moment’s  hesitation,  she  held  out  her  hand  to  me  saying, 
“This  is  kind  of  you,  Mrs.  Percivale ;  ”  then  to  my  father, 
saying,  “  I’m  very  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Walton.  Will  you  walk 
in  ?  ” 

We  followed  her  into  the  room.  It  was  not  very  small,  for 
it  occupied  nearly  the  breadth  of  the  house.  On  one  side,  the 
roof  sloped  so  nearly  to  the  floor  that  there  was  not  height 
enough  to  stand  erect  in.  On  the  other  side  the  sloping  part 
was  partitioned  off — evidently  for  a  bedroom.  But  what  a 
change  it  was  from  the  lower  part  of  the  house  !  By  the  light 
of  a  single  mould  candle,  I  saw  that  the  floor  was  as  clean  as 
old  boards  could  be  made,  and  I  wondered  whether  she  scrubbed 
them  herself.  I  know  now  that  she  did.  The  two  dormer 
windows  were  hung  with  white  dimity  curtains.  Back  in  the 
angle  of  the  roof,  between  the  windows,  stood  an  old  bureau. 
There  was  little  more  than  room  between  the  top  of  it  and  the 
ceiling  for  a  little  plaster  statuette  with  bound  hands  and  a 
strangely  crowned  head.  A  few  books  on  hanging  shelves 
were  on  the  opposite  side  by  the  door  to  the  other  room,  and 
the  walls,  which  were  whitewashed,  were  a  good  deal  covered 
with — whether  engravings  or  etchings  or  lithographs  I  could  not 
then  see — none  of  them  framed,  only  mounted  on  cardboard. 
There  was  a  fire  cheerfully  burning  in  the  gable,  and  opposite 
to  that  stood  a  tall  old-fashioned  cabinet  piano,  in  faded  red 
silk.  It  was  open,  and  on  the  music-rest  lay  Handel’s  Verdi 
Prati- — for  I  managed  to  glance  at  it  as  we  left.  A  few  wooden 
chairs  and  one  very  old  fashioned  easy-chair,  covered  with 
striped  chintz,  from  which  not  glaze  only  but  colour  almost  had 
disappeared,  with  an  oblong  table  of  deal,  completed  the 
furniture  of  the  room.  She  made  my  father  sit  down  in  the 
easy-chair,  placed  me  one  in  front  of  the  fire,  and  took  another 
at  the  corner  opposite  my  father.  A  moment  of  silence 
followed,  which  I,  having  a  guilty  conscience,  felt  awk¬ 
ward.  But  my  father  never  allowed  awkwardness  to  accu¬ 
mulate. 

“  I  had  hoped  to  have  been  able  to  call  upon  you  long  ago, 


122 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter. 

Miss  Clare,  but  there  was  some  difficulty  in  finding  out  where 
you  lived.” 

“  You  are  no  longer  surprised  at  that  difficulty,  I  presume,” 
she  returned  with  a  smile. 

“  But,”  said  my  father,  “  if  you  will  allow  an  old  man  to 
speak  freely — * 

“  Say  what  you  please,  Mr.  Walton.  I  promise  to  answer  any 
question  you  think  proper  to  ask  me.” 

“  My  dear  Miss  Clare,  I  had  not  the  slightest  intention  of 
catechizing  you,  though,  of  course,  I  shall  be  grateful  for  what 
confidence  you  please  to  put  in  me.  What  I  meant  to  say 
might  indeed  have  taken  the  form  of  a  question,  but  as  such 
could  have  been  intended  only  for  you  to  answer  to  yourself — • 
whether,  namely,  it  was  wise  to  place  yourself  at  such  a  dis¬ 
advantage  as  living  in  this  quarter  must  be  to  you.” 

“  If  you  were  acquainted  with  my  history,  you  would  perhaps 
hesitate,  Wr.  Walton,  before  you  said  I  placed  myself  at  such 
disadvantage.” 

Here  a  thought  struck  me. 

“  I  fancy,  papa,  it  is  not  for  her  own  sake  Miss  Clare  lives 
here.” 

“  I  hope  not,”  she  interposed. 

“  I  believe,”  I  went  on,  “  she  has  a  grandmother,  who 
probably  has  grown  accustomed  to  the  place,  and  is  unwilling 
to  leave  it.” 

She  looked  puzzled  for  a  moment,  then  burst  into  a  merry 
laugh. 

“  I  see,”  she  exclaimed.  “  How  stupid  I  am  !  You  have 
heard  some  of  the  people  in  the  house  talk  about  grannie : 
that’s  me  !  I  am  known  in  the  house  as  grannie,  and  have  been 
for  a  good  many  years  now — I  can  hardly,  without  thinking,  tell 
for  how  many.” 

Again  she  laughed  heartily,  and  my  father  and  I  shared  her 
merriment. 

“  How  many  grandchildren  have  you  then,  pray,  Miss  Clare  ?  ” 

“  Let  me  see.” 


Miss  Clare  s  Home. 


123 


She  thought  for  a  minute. 

“  I  could  easily  tell  you  if  it  were  only  the  people  in  this 
house  I  bad  to  reckon  up.  They  are  about  five-and-thirty  ;  but 
unfortunately  the  name  has  been  caught  up  in  the  neighbouring 
houses,  and  T  am  very  sorry  that  in  consequence  I  cannot  with 
certainty  say  how  many  grandchildren  I  have.  I  think  I  know 
them  all,  however,  and  I  fancy  that  is  more  than  many  an 
English  grandmother,  with  children  in  America,  India,  and 
Australia,  can  say  for  herself/’ 

Certainly  she  was  not  older  than  I  was  ;  and  while  hearing 
her  merry  laugh  and  seeing  her  young  face  overflowed  with 
smiles,  which  appeared  to  come  sparkling  out  of  her  eyes  as  out 
of  two  well-springs,  one  could  not  help  feeling  puzzled  how, 
even  in  the  farthest-off  jest,  she  could  have  got  the  name  of 
grannie.  But  I  could  at  the  same  time  recall  expressions  of  her 
countenance  which  would  much  better  agree  with  the  name 
than  that  which  now  shone  from  it. 

“  Would  you  like  to  hear,”  she  said,  when  our  merriment 
had  a  little  subsided,  “  how  I  have  so  easily  arrived  at  the 
honourable  name  of  grannie — at  least  all  I  know  about  it  ?” 

“  I  should  be  delighted,”  said  my  father. 

“  You  don’t  know  what  you  are  pledging  yourself  to  when 
you  say  so,”  she  rejoined,  again  laughing.  “You  will  have  to 
hear  the  whole  of  my  story  from  the  beginning.” 

“  Again  I  say  I  shall  be  delighted,”  returned  my  father,  con¬ 
fident  that  her  history  could  be  the  source  of  nothing  but 
pleasure  to  him. 


124 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter , 


CHAPTER  XX. 

HER  STORY. 

Thereupon  Miss  Clare  began.  I  do  not  pretend  to  give 
her  very  words,  but  I  must  tell  her  story  as  if  she  were  tell¬ 
ing  it  herself.  I  shall  be  as  true  as  I  can  to  the  facts,  and 
hope  to  catch  something  of  the  tone  of  the  narrator  as  I 
go  on. 

“  My  mother  died  when  I  was  very  young,  and  I  was  left 
alone  with  my  father,  for  I  was  his  only  child.  He  was  a 
studious  and  thoughtful  man.  It  may  be  the  partiality  of  a 
daughter,  I  know,  hut  I  am  not  necessarily  wrong  in  believing 
that  diffidence  in  his  own  powers  alone  prevented  him  from 
distinguishing  himself.  As  it  was,  he  supported  himself  and 
me  by  literary  work  of,  I  presume,  a  secondary  order.  He 
would  spend  all  his  mornings  for  many  weeks  in  the  library  of 
the  British  Museum — reading  and  making  notes  ;  after  which 
he  would  sit  wrriting  at  home  for  as  long  or  longer.  I  should 
have  found  it  very  dull  during  the  former  of  these  times,  had 
he  not  early  discovered  that  I  had  some  capacity  for  music, 
and  provided  for  me  what  I  now  knowr  to  have  been  the  best 
instruction  to  be  had.  His  feeling  alone  had  guided  him  right, 
for  he  was  without  musical  knowledge :  I  believe  he  could  not 
have  found  me  a  better  teacher  in  all  Europe.  Her  character 
was  lovely,  and  her  music  the  natural  outcome  of  its  harmony. 
But  I  must  not  forget  it  is  about  myself  I  have  to  tell  you.  I 
went  to  her,  then,  almost  every  day  for  a  time — but  how  long 
that  was,  I  can  only  guess.  It  must  have  been  several  years, 
I  think,  else  I  could  not  have  attained  what  proficiency  I 
had  when  my  sorrow'  came  upon  me. 

“  What  my  father  wrote  I  cannot  tell.  How  gladly  wrould  I 
now  read  the  shortest  sentence  1  knew  to  be  his  !  He  never 
told  me  for  what  journals  he  wrote,  or  even  for  what  publishers. 
I  fancy  it  was  work  in  which  his  brain  was  more  interested 


125 


Her  Story. 

than  his  heart,  and  which  he  was  always  hoping  to  exchange 
for  something  more  to  his  mind.  After  his  death  I  could  dis¬ 
cover  scarcely  a  scrap  of  his  writings  and  not  a  hint  to  guide 
me  to  what  he  had  written. 

I  believe  we  went  on  living  from  hand  to  mouth,  my  father 
never  getting  so  far  ahead  of  the  wolf  as  to  be  able  to  pause 
and  choose  his  way.  But  I  was  very  happy,  and  would  have 
been  no  whit  less  happy  if  he  had  explained  our  circumstances, 
for  that  would  have  conveyed  to  me  no  hint  of  danger. 
Neither  has  any  of  the  suffering  I  have  had — at  least  any  keen 
enough  to  be  worth  dwelling  upon — sprung  from  personal 
privation,  although  I  am  not  unacquainted  with  hunger  and 
cold. 

“  My  happiest  time  was  when  my  father  asked  me  to  play  to 
him  while  he  wrote,  and  I  sat  down  to  my  old  cabinet  Broad- 
wood — the  one  you  see  there  is  as  like  it  as  I  could  find — and 
played  anything  and  everything  I  liked — for  somehow  I  never 
forgot  what  I  had  once  learned  -while  my  father  sat,  as  he  said, 
like  a  mere  extension  of  the  instrument,  operated  upon,  rather 
than  listening,  as  he  wrote.  What  I  then  thought  I  cannot  tell, 
I  don’t  believe  I  thought  at  all.  I  only  musicated ,  as  a  little 
pupil  of  mine  once  said  to  me,  when,  having  found  her  sitting 
with  her  hands  on  her  lap  before  the  piano,  I  asked  her  what 
she  was  doing  :  ‘  I  am  only  musicating,’  she  answered.  But 
the  enjoyment  was  none  the  less  that  there  was  no  conscious 
thought  in  it. 

“  Other  branches,  he  taught  me  himself,  and  I  believe  I  got 
on  very  fairly  for  my  age.  We  lived  then  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  the  Museum,  where  I  was  well  known  to  all  the  people  of 
the  place,  for  I  used  often  to  go  there,  and  would  linger 
about  looking  at  things,  sometimes  for  hours  before  my 
father  came  to  me  ;  but  he  always  came  at  the  very  minute  he 
had  said,  and  always  found  me  at  the  appointed  spot.  I 
gained  a  great  deal  by  thus  haunting  the  Museum — a  great 
deal  more  than  I  supposed  at  the  time.  One  gain  was,  that 
I  knew  perfectly  where  in  the  place  any  given  sort  of  thing  was 


126 


The  Vicars  Daughter . 

to  be  founa,  if  it  were  there  at  all :  I  had  unconsciously  learned 
something  of  classification. 

“  One  afternoon  I  was  waiting  as  usual,  but  my  father  did 
not  come  at  the  time  appointed.  I  waited  on  and  on  till  it 
grew  dark,  and  the  hour  for  closing  arrived,  by  which  time  I 
was  in  great  uneasiness  ;  but  I  was  forced  to  go  home  without 
him.  I  must  hasten  over  this  part  of  my  history,  for  even  yet 
I  can  scarcely  bear  to  speak  of  it.  I  found  that  while  I  was 
waiting,  he  had  been  seized  with  some  kind  of  fit  in  the  read¬ 
ing-room,  and  had  been  carried  home,  and  that  I  was  alone 
in  the  world.  The  landlady,  for  we  only  rented  rooms  in  the 
house,  was  very  kind  to  me,  at  least  until  she  found  that  my  father 
had  left  no  money.  He  had  then  been  only  reading  for  a  long 
time,  and,  when  I  looked  back,  I  could  see  that  he  must  have 
been  short  of  money  for  some  weeks  at  least.  A  few  bills 
coming  in,  all  our  little  effects — for  the  furniture  was  our  own 
- — were  sold,  without  bringing  sufficient  to  pay  them.  The 
things  went  for  less  than  half  their  value,  in  consequence,  I 
believe,  of  that  well-known  conspiracy  of  the  brokers  which 
they  call  knocking  out.  I  was  especially  miserable  at  losing  my 
father’s  books,  which,  although  in  ignorance,  I  greatly  valued 
— more  miserable  even,  I  honestly  think,  than  at  seeing  my 
loved  piano  carried  off. 

‘‘When  the  sale  was  over,  and  everything  removed,  I  sat 
down  on  the  floor,  amidst  the  dust  and  bits  of  paper  and  straw 
and  cord,  without  a  single  idea  in  my  head  as  to  what  was  to 
become  of  me,  or  what  I  was  to  do  next.  I  didn’t  cry  -  that 
I  am  sure  of — but  I  doubt  if  in  all  London  there  was  a  more 
wretched  child  than  myself  just  then.  The  twilight  was  dark¬ 
ening  down — the  twilight  of  a  November  afternoon.  Of  course 
there  was  no  fire  in  the  grate,  and  I  had  eaten  nothing  that 
day;  for,  although  the  landlady  had  offered  me  some  dinner, 
and  1  had  tried  to  please  her  by  taking  some,  I  found  I  could 
not  swallow,  and  had  to  leave  it.  While  1  sat  thus  on  the 
floor,  1  heard  her  come  into  the  room,  and  some  one  with  her, 
but  I  did  not  look  '-ound,  and  they,  not  seeing  me,  and  think- 


Does  Miss  Clare  live  in  this  house  ?  ”  my  father  asked. 


Her  Story. 


1 27 


ing,  I  suppose,  that  I  was  in  one  of  the  other  rooms,  went  on 
talking  about  me.  All  I  afterwards  remembered  of  their  con¬ 
versation  was  some  severe  reflections  on  my  father,  and  the 
announcement  of  the  decree  that  I  must  go  to  the  workhouse. 
Though  I  knew  nothing  definite  as  to  the  import  of  this  doom, 
it  filled  me  with  horror.  The  moment  they  left  me  alone,  ot 
look  for  me,  as  I  supposed,  I  got  up,  and,  walking  as  softly  as 
I  could,  glided  down  the  stairs,  and,  unbonneted  and  un¬ 
wrapped,  ran  from  the  house,  half-blind  with  terror. 

“  I  had  not  gone  farther,  I  fancy,  than  a  few  yards,  when  I 
ran  up  against  some  one,  who  laid  hold  of  me,  and  asked  me 
gruffly  what  I  meant  by  it.  I  knew  the  voice  :  it  was  that  of 
an  old  Irishwoman  who  did  all  the  little  charing  we  wanted — 
for  I  kept  the  rooms  tidy,  and  the  landlady  cooked  for  us.  As 
soon  as  she  saw  who  it  was,  her  tone  changed,  and  then  first  I 
broke  out  in  sobs,  and  told  her  I  was  running  away  because 
they  were  going  to  send  me  to  the  workhouse.  She  burst  into 
a  torrent  of  Irish  indignation,  and  assured  me  that  such  should 
never  be  my  fate  while  she  lived.  I  must  go  back  to  the  house 
with  her,  she  said,  and  get  my  things ;  and  then  I  should  go 
home  with  her  until  something  better  should  turn  up.  I  told 
her  I  would  go  with  her  anywhere,  except  into  that  house 
again  ;  and  she  did  not  insist,  but  afterwards  went  by  herself 
and  got  my  little  wardrobe.  In  the  meantime  she  led  me  away 
to  a  large  house  in  a  square,  of  which  she  took  the  key  from 
her  pocket  to  open  the  door.  It  looked  to  me  such  a  huge 
place ! — the  largest  house  I  had  ever  been  in ;  but  it  was 
rather  desolate,  for,  except  in  one  little  room  below,  where  she 
had  scarcely  more  than  a  bed  and  a  chair,  a  slip  of  carpet  and 
a  frying-pan,  there  was  not  an  article  of  furniture  in  the  whole 
place.  She  had  been  put  there  when  the  last  tenant  left,  to  take 
care  of  the  place,  until  another  tenant  should  appear  to  turn 
her  out.  She  had  her  house-room  and  a  trifle  a  week  besides 
for  her  services,  beyond  which  she  depended  entirely  on  what 
she  could  make  by  charing.  When  she  had  no  house  to  live 
jn  on  the  same  terms,  she  took  a  room  somewhere. 


128 


The  Vicar's  Daughter . 

“  Here  I  lived  for  several  months,  and  was  able  to  be  of  use  , 
for,  as  Mrs.  Conan  was  bound  to  be  there  at  certain  times  to 
show  any  one  over  the  house  who  brought  an  order  from  the 
agent,  and  this  necessarily  took  up  a  good  part  of  her  working 
time  ;  and  as,  moreover,  I  could  open  the  door  and  walk  about 
the  place  as  well  as  another,  she  willingly  left  me  in  charge  as 
often  as  she  had  a  job  elsewhere. 

“  On  such  occasions,  however,  I  found  it  very  dreary  indeed, 
for  few  people  called,  and  she  would  not  unfrequently  be  absent 
the  whole  day.  If  I  had  had  my  piano,  I  should  have  cared 
little ;  but  I  had  not  a  single  book,  except  one — and  what  do 
you  think  that  was  ?  An  odd  volume  of  the  Newgate  Calendar. 
I  need  hardly  say  that  it  had  not  the  effect  on  me  which  it  is 
said  to  have  on  some  of  its  students :  it  moved  me  indeed  to 
the  profoundest  sympathy,  not  with  the  crimes  of  the  male¬ 
factors,  only  with  the  malefactors  themselves,  and  their  mental 
condition  after  the  deed  was  actually  done.  But  it  was  with  the  fas¬ 
cination  of  a  hopeless  horror,  making  me  feel  almost  as  if  I  had 
committed  every  crime  as  I  perused  its  tale,  that  I  regarded  them. 
They  were  to  me  like  living  crimes.  It  was  not  until  long 
afterwards  that  I  was  able  to  understand  that  a  man’s  actions  are 
not  the  man,  but  may  be  separated  from  him  ;  that  his  character 
even  is  not  the  man,  but  may  be  changed,  while  he  yet  holds 
the  same  individuality— is  the  man  who  was  blind  though  he 
now  sees  ;  whence  it  comes  that,  the  deeds  continuing  his,  all 
stain  of  them  may  yet  be  washed  out  of  him.  I  did  not,  I  say, 
understand  all  this  until  afterwards,  but  I  believe,  odd  as  it 
may  seem,  that  volume  of  the  Newgate  Calendar  threw  down  the 
first  deposit  of  soil  from  which  afterwards  sprang  what  grew 
to  be  almost  a  passion  in  me  for  getting  the  people  about  me 
clean — a  passion  which  might  have  done  as  much  harm  as  good, 
if  its  companion  patience  had  not  been  sent  me  to  guide  and 
restrain  it.  In  a  word,  I  came  at  length  to  understand  in 
some  measure  the  last  prayer  of  our  Lord  for  those  that 
crucified  him,  and  the  ground  on  which  he  begged  from  hia 
Father  their  forgiveness — that  they  knew  not  what  they  did. 


129 


Her  Story.  • 

If  the  Newgate  Calendar  was  indeed  the  beginning  of  this 
course  of  education,  I  need  not  regret  having  lost  my  piano, 
and  having  that  volume  for  a  while  as  my  only  Aid  to  Reflec¬ 
tion. 

“  My  father  had  never  talked  much  to  me  about  religion,  but 
when  he  did,  it  was  with  such  evident  awe  in  his  spirit  and 
reverence  in  his  demeanour,  as  had  more  effect  on  me,  I  am 
certain,  from  the  very  paucity  of  the  words  in  which  his  mean¬ 
ing  found  utterance.  Another  thing  which  had  still  more  in¬ 
fluence  upon  me  was,  that,  waking  one  night  after  I  had  been 
asleep  for  some  time,  I  saw  him  on  his  knees  by  my  bedside. 
I  did  not  move  or  speak,  for  fear  of  disturbing  him  ;  and,  in¬ 
deed,  such  an  awe  came  over  me,  that  it  would  have  required 
a  considerable  effort  of  the  will  for  any  bodily  movement  what¬ 
ever.  When  he  lifted  his  head,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  pale, 
tearful  face  ;  and  it  is  no  wonder  that  the  virtue  of  the  sight 
should  never  have  passed  away. 

“  On  Sundays  we  went  to  church  in  the  morning,  and  in  the 
afternoon,  in  fine  weather,  went  out  for  a  walk;  or,  if  it  were 
raining  or  cold,  I  played  to  him  till  he  fell  asleep  on  the  sofa. 
Then,  in  the  evening,  after  tea,  we  had  more  music,  some 
poetry,  which  we  read  alternately,  and  a  chapter  of  the  New 
Testament,  which  he  always  read  to  me.  I  mention  this,  to 
show  you  that  I  did  not  come  all  unprepared  to  the  study  of 
the  Newgate  Calendar.  Still,  I  cannot  think  that,  under  any 
circumstances,  it  could  have  done  an  innocent  child  harm. 
Even  familiarity  with  vice  is  not  necessarily  pollution.  There 
cannot  be  many  women  of  my  age  as  familiar  with  it  in  every 
shape  as  I  am  ;  and  I  do  not  find  that  I  grow  to  regard  it 
with  one  atom  less  of  absolute  abhorrence,  although  I  neither 
shudder  at  the  mention  of  it,  nor  turn  with  disgust  from  the 
person  in  whom  it  dwells.  But  the  consolations  of  religion 
were  not  yet  consciously  mine.  I  had  not  yet  begun  to  think 
of  God  in  any  relation  to  myself. 

“  The  house  was  in  an  old  square,  built,  I  believe,  in  tha 
reign  of  Queen  Anne,  which,  although  many  of  the  houses 

K 


130  The  Vicar  s  Daughter. 

were  occupied  by  well-to-do  people,  had  fallen  far  from  its  first 
high  estate.  No  one  would  believe,  to  look  at  it  from  the  out¬ 
side,  what  a  great  place  it  was.  The  whole  of  the  space 
behind  it,  corresponding  to  the  small  gardens  of  the  other 
houses,  was  occupied  by  a  large  music-room,  under  which  was 
a  low-pitched  room  of  equal  extent,  while  all  under  that  were 
cellars,  connected  with  the  sunk  story  in  front  by  a  long  vaulted 
passage,  corresponding  to  a  wooden  gallery  above,  which  formed 
a  communication  between  the  drawing-room  floor  and  the 
music-room.  Most  girls  of  my  age,  knowing  these  vast  empty 
spaces  about  them,  would  have  been  terrified  at  being  left  alone 
there  even  in  mid-day.  But  I  was,  I  suppose,  too  miserable  to 
be  frightened.  Even  the  horrible  facts  of  the  Newgate  Calendar 
did  not  thus  affect  me,  not  even  when  Mrs.  Conan  was  later 
than  usual,  and  the  night  came  down,  and  I  had  to  sit,  perhaps 
for  hours,  in  the  dark — for  she  would  not  allow  me  to  have  a 
candle  for  fear  of  fire.  But  you  will  not  wonder  that  I  used 
to  cry  a  good  deal,  although  I  did  my  best  to  hide  the  traces 
of  it,  because  I  knew  it  would  annoy  my  kind  old  friend.  She 
showed  me  a  great  deal  of  rough  tenderness,  which  would  not 
have  been  rough  had  not  the  natural  grace  of  her  Irish  nature 
been  injured  by  the  contact  of  many  years  with  the  dull  coarse¬ 
ness  of  the  uneducated  Saxon.  You  may  be  sure  I  learned  to 
love  her  dearly.  She  shared  everything  with  me  in  the  way 
of  eating,  and  would  have  shared  also  the  tumbler  of  gin  and 
water  with  which  she  generally  ended  the  day,  but  something, 
I  don’t  know  what,  I  believe  a  simple  physical  dislike,  made  me 
refuse  that  altogether. 

“  One  evening  I  have  particular  cause  to  remember,  both 
for  itself  and  because  of  something  that  followed  many  years 
after.  I  was  in  the  drawing-room  on  the  first  floor,  a  double 
room  with  folding  doors  and  a  small  cabinet  behind  communi¬ 
cating  with  a  back  stair,  for  the  stairs  were  double  all  through 
the  house,  adding  much  to  the  eeriness  of  the  place  as  I  look 
back  upon  it  in  my  memory.  I  fear,  in  describing  the  place  so 
minutely,  I  may  have  been  rousing  false  expectations  of  an 


Her  Story.  131 

adventure,  but  I  have  a  reason  for  being  rather  minute,  though 
it  will  not  appear  until  afterwards.  I  had  been  looking  out  of 
the  window  all  the  afternoon  upon  the  silent  square,  for,  as  it 
was  no  thoroughfare,  it  was  only  enlivened  by  the  passing  and 
returning  now  and  then  of  a  tradesman’s  cart ;  and,  as  it  was 
winter,  there  were  no  children  playing  in  the  garden.  It  was  a 
rainy  afternoon.  A  great  cloud  of  fog  and  soot  hung  from 
the  whole  sky.  About  a  score  of  yellow  leaves  yet  quivered 
on  the  trees,  and  the  statue  of  Queen  Anne  stood  bleak  and 
disconsolate  among  the  bare  branches.  I  am  afraid  I  am 
getting  long-winded — but  somehow  that  afternoon  seems  burned 
into  me  in  enamel.  I  gazed  drearily  without  interest.  I  brooded 
over  the  past ;  I  never,  at  this  time,  so  far  as  I  remember, 
dreamed  of  looking  forward.  1  had  no  hope.  It  never  occurred 
to  me  that  things,  might  grow  better.  I  was  dull  and  wretched. 
I  may  just  say  here  in  passing  that  I  think  this  experience  is 
in  a  great  measure  what  has  enabled  me  to  understand  the 
peculiar  misery  of  the  poor  in  our  large  towns — they  have  no 
hope,  no  impulse  to  look  forward — nothing  to  expect;  they 
live  but  in  the  present,  and  the  dreariness  of  that  soon  shapes 
the  whole  atmosphere  of  their  spirits  to  its  own  likeness.  Per¬ 
haps  the  first  thing  one  who  would  help  them  has  to  do,  is  to 
aid  the  birth  of  some  small  vital  hope  in  them ;  that  is  better 
than  a  thousand  gifts,  especially  those  of  the  ordinary  kind, 
which  mostly  do  harm,  tending  to  keep  them  what  they  are — a 
prey  to  present  and  importunate  wants. 

“  It  began  to  grow  dark,  and,  tired  of  standing,  I  sat  down 
upon  the  floor,  for  there  was  nothing  to  sit  upon  besides. 
There  I  still  sat,  long  after  it  was  quite  dark.  All  at  once  a 
surge  of  self-pity  arose  in  my  heart.  I  burst  out  wailing  and 
sobbing,  and  cried  aloud— f  God  has  forgotten  me  altogether  !  ’ 
The  fact  was  I  had  had  no  dinner  that  day,  for  Mrs.  Conan 
had  expected  to  return  long  before ;  and  the  piece  of  bread 
she  had  given  me,  which  was  all  that  was  in  the  house,  I  had 
eaten  many  hours  ago.  But  I  was  not  thinking  of  my  dinner, 
though  the  want  of  it  may  have  had  to  do  with  this  burst  of 

K  2 


132 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter. 

misery.  What  I  was  really  thinking  of  was — that  I  could  do 
nothing  for  anybody.  My  little  ambition  had  always  been  to 
be  useful.  I  knew  I  was  of  some  use  to  my  father,  for  I  kept 
the  rooms  tidy  for  him,  and  dusted  his  pet  books — oh,  so  care¬ 
fully  !  for  they  were  like  household  gods  to  me.  I  had  also 
played  to  him,  and  I  knew  he  enjoyed  that  :  he  said  so,  many 
times.  And  I  had  begun,  though  not  long  before  he  left  me, 
to  think  how  I  should  be  able  to  help  him  better  by-and-by. 
For  I  saw  that  he  worked  very  hard  — so  hard  that  it  made  him 
silent;  and  I  knew  that  my  music-mistress  made  her  livelihood, 
partly  at  least,  by  giving  lessons ;  and  I  thought  that  I  might, 
by-and-by,  be  able  to  give  lessons  too,  and  then  papa  would 
not  require  to  work  so  hard,  for  I  too  should  bring  home  money 
to  pay  for  what  we  wanted.  But  now  I  was  of  use  to  nobody, 
I  said,  and  not  likely  to  become  of  any.  I  could  not  even  help 
poor  Mrs.  Conan,  except  by  doing  what  a  child  might  do  just 
as  well  as  I,  for  I  did  not  earn  a  penny  of  our  living ;  I  only 
gave  the  poor  old  thing  time  to  work  harder,  that  I  might  eat 
up  her  earnings  !  What  added  to  the  misery  was  that  I  had 
always  thought  of  myself  as  a  lady — for  was  not  papa  a  gentle¬ 
man — let  him  be  ever  so  poor?  Shillings  and  sovereigns  in 
his  pocket  could  not  determine  whether  a  man  was  a  gentleman 
or  not!  And  if  he  was  a  gentleman,  his  daughter  must  be  a 
lady.  But  how  could  I  be  a  lady  if  I  was  content  to  be  a 
burden  to  a  poor  charwoman,  instead  of  earning  my  own  living, 
and  something  besides  with  which  to  help  her  ?  For  I  had 
the  notion  — ho7v  it  came  I  cannot  tell,  though  I  know  well 
enough  whence  it  came — that  position  depended  on  how  much 
a  person  was  able  to  help  other  people  ;  and  here  I  was,  useless, 
worse  than  useless  to  anybody  !  Why  did  not  God  remember 
me,  if  it  was  only  for  my  father’s  sake?  He  was  worth  some¬ 
thing,  if  I  was  not !  And  I  would  be  worth  something,  if  only 
I  had  a  chance! — ‘I  am  of  no  use,’  I  cried,  ‘and  God  has 
forgotten  me  altogether  !  ’  And  I  went  on  weeping  and  moan¬ 
ing  in  my  great  misery,  until  I  fell  fast  asleep  on  the  floor. 

“  I  have  no  theory  about  dreams  and  visions;  and  I  don’t 


Her  Story . 


13  3 


know  what  you,  Mr.  Walton,  may  think  as  to  whether  these 
ended  with  the  first  ages  of  the  church ;  but  surely  if  one 
falls  fast  asleep  without  an  idea  in  one’s  head,  and  a  whole 
dismal  world  of  misery  in  one’s  heart,  and  wakes  up  quiet  and 
refreshed,  without  the  misery,  and  with  an  idea,  there  can  be  no 
great  fanaticism  in  thinking  that  the  change  may  have  come 
from  somewhere  near  where  the  miracles  lie — in  fact,  that  God 
may  have  had  something — might  I  not  say  everything? — to 
do  with  it.  For  my  part,  if  I  were  to  learn  that  he  had  no 
hand  in  this  experience  of  mine,  I  couldn’t  help  losing  all  in¬ 
terest  in  it,  and  wishing  that  I  had  died  of  the  misery  which  it 
dispelled.  Certainly,  if  it  had  a  physical  source,  it  wasn’t  that 
I  wras  more  comfortable,  for  I  wars  hungrier  than  ever,  and,  you 
may  well  fancy,  cold  enough,  having  slept  on  the  bare  floor 
without  anytbingto  cover  me,  on  Christmas-Eve — for  Christmas- 
Eve  it  was.  No  doubt  my  sleep  had  done  me  good,  but  I 
suspect  the  sleep  came  to  quiet  my  mind  for  the  reception  of 
the  new  idea. 

“  The  way  Mrs.  Conan  kept  Christmas-Day,  as  she  told 
me  in  the  morning,  wras — to  comfort  her  old  bones  in  bed 
until  the  afternoon,  and  then  to  have  a  good  tea  with  a  chop; 
after  which  she  said  she  would  have  me  read  the  Newgate 
Calendar  to  her.  So,  as  soon  as  I  had  washed  up  the  few 
breakfast  things,  I  asked  if,  while  she  lay  in  bed,  I  might  not  go 
out  for  a  little  while,  to  look  for  work.  She  laughed  at  the 
notion  of  my  being  able  to  do  anything,  but  did  not  object  to 
my  trying.  So  I  dressed  myself  as  neatly  as  I  could,  and  set 
out. 

“  There  wrere  two  narrow  streets  full  of  small  shops,  in  which 
those  of  furniture  brokers  predominated,  leading  from  the  two 
lower  corners  of  the  square  down  into  Oxford  street ;  and  in  a 
shop  in  one  of  these,  I  wras  not  sure  which,  I  had  seen  an  old 
piano  standing,  and  a  girl  of  about  my  own  age  watching.  I 
found  the  shop  at  last,  although  it  wras  shut  up,  for  I  knew  the 
name,  and  knocked  at  the  door.  It  was  opened  by  a  stout 
matron,  with  a  not  unfriendly  expression,  who  asked  me  what  I 


134 


The  Vicar's  Daughter . 

wanted.  I  told  her  I  wanted  work.  She  seemed  amused  at  the 
idea — for  I  was  very  small  for  my  age  then,  as  well  as  now — but, 
apparently  willing  to  have  a  chat  with  me,  asked  what  I 
could  do.  I  told  her  I  could  teach  her  daughter  music.  She 
asked  me  what  made  me  come  to  her,  and  I  told  her.  Then  she 
asked  me  how  much  I  should  charge.  I  told  her  that  some 
ladies  had  a  guinea  a  lesson,  at  which  she  laughed  so  heartily, 
that  I  had  to  wait  until  the  first  transports  of  her  amusement 
were  over  before  I  could  finish  by  saying  that  for  my  part  I 
should  be  glad  to  give  an  hour’s  lesson  for  threepence,  only,  if 
she  pleased,  I  should  prefer  it  in  silver.  But  how  was  she  to 
know,  she  asked,  that  I  could  teach  her  properly  ?  I  told  her 
I  would  let  her  hear  me  play ;  whereupon  she  led  me  into  the 
shop,  through  a  back  room  in  which  her  husband  sat  smoking  a 
long  pipe  with  a  tankard  at  his  elbow.  Having  taken  down  a 
shutter,  she  managed  with  some  difficulty  to  clear  me  a  passage 
through  a  crowd  of  furniture  to  the  instrument,  and  with  a 
struggle  I  squeezed  through  and  reached  it ;  but  at  the  first 
chord  I  struck,  I  gave  a  cry  of  dismay.  In  some  alarm  she 
asked  what  was  the  matter,  calling  me  child  very  kindly.  I  told 
her  it  was  so  dreadfully  out  of  tune  I  couldn’t  play  upon  it  at 
all ;  but  if  she  would  get  it  tuned,  I  should  not  be  long  in 
showing  her  I  could  do  what  I  professed.  She  told  me  she 
could  not  afford  to  have  it  tuned,  and  if  I  could  not  teach 
Bertha  on  it  as  it  was,  she  couldn’t  help  it.  This  however,  I 
assured  her,  was  utterly  impossible  ;  upon  which,  with  some 
show  of  offence,  she  reached  over  a  chest  of  drawers,  and  shut 
down  the  cover.  I  believe  she  doubted  whether  I  could  play  at 
all,  and  had  not  been  merely  amusing  myself  at  her  expense. 
Nothing  was  left  but  to  thank  her,  bid  her  good  morning,  and 
walk  out  of  the  house,  dreadfully  disappointed. 

“  Unwilling  to  go  home  at  once,  I  wandered  about  the 
neighbourhood,  through  street  after  street,  until  I  found  myself 
in  another  square,  with  a  number  of  business-signs  in  it— one  of 
them  that  of  a  pianoforte  firm,  at  sight  of  which,  a  thought 
came  into  my  head  :  the  next  morning  I  went  in,  and  re- 


135 


Her  Story . 

quested  to  see  the  master.  The  man  to  whom  I  spoke  stared 
no  doubt,  but  he  went,  and  returning  after  a  little  while, 
during  which  my  heart  beat  very  fast,  invited  me  to  walk  into 
the  counting-house.  Mr.  Perkins  was  amused  with  the  story 
of  my  attempt  to  procure  teaching,  and  its  frustration.  If  I  had 
asked  him  for  money,  to  which  I  do  not  believe  hunger  itself 
could  have  driven  me,  he  would  probably  have  got  rid  of  me 
quickly  enough— and  small  blame  to  him,  as  Mrs.  Conan 
would  have  said  ;  but  to  my  request  that  he  would  spare  a  man 
to  tune  Mrs.  Lampeter’s  piano,  he  replied  at  once  that  he 
would,  provided  I  could  satisfy  him  as  to  my  efficiency. 
Thereupon  he  asked  me  a  few  questions  about  music,  of  which 
some  I  could  answer  and  some  I  could  not.  Next  he  took  me 
into  the  shop,  set  me  a  stool  in  front  of  a  grand  piano,  and  told 
me  to  play.  I  could  not  help  trembling  a  good  deal,  but  I 
tried  my  best.  In  a  few  moments,  however,  the  tears  were  drop¬ 
ping  on  the  keys,  and  when  he  asked  me  what  was  the  matter, 
I  told  him  it  was  months  since  I  had  touched  a  piano.  The 
answer  did  not  however  satisfy  him ;  he  asked  very  kindly 
how  that  was,  and  I  had  to  tell  him  my  whole  story.  Then 
he  not  only  promised  to  have  the  piano  tuned  for  me  at  once, 
but  told  me  that  I  might  go  and  practice  there  as  often  as  I 
pleased,  so  long  as  I  was  a  good  girl,  and  did  not  take  up  with 
bad  company.  Imagine  my  delight  !  Then  he  sent  for  a 
tuner,  and  I  suppose  told  him  a  little  about  me,  for  the  man 
spoke  very  kindly  to  me  as  we  went  to  the  broker’s. 

“  Mr.  Perkins  has  been  a  good  friend  to  me  ever  since. 

“  For  six  months  I  continued  to  give  Bertha  Lampeter 
lessons.  They  were  broken  off  only  when  she  went  to  a  dress¬ 
maker  to  learn  her  business.  But  her  mother  had  by  that 
time  introduced  me  to  several  families  of  her  acquaintance, 
amongst  whom  I  found  five  or  six  pupils  on  the  same  terms. 
By  this  teaching,  if  I  earned  little,  I  learned  much ;  and  every 
day  almost  I  practised  at  the  music-shop. 

“  When  the  house  was  let,  Mrs.  Conan  took  a  room  in  the 
neighbourhood,  that  I  might  keep  up  my  connexion,  she  said. 


I3<S  The  Vicars  Daughter. 

Then  first  I  was  introduced  to  scenes  and  experiences  with 
which  I  am  now  familiar.  Mrs.  Percivale  might  well  recoil  if 
I  were  to  tell  her  half  the  wretchedness,  wickedness,  and  vul¬ 
garity  I  have  seen,  and  often  had  to  encounter.  For  two  years 
or  so  we  changed  about,  at  one  time  in  an  empty  house,  at 
another  in  a  hired  room,  sometimes  better,  sometimes  worse  off 
as  regarded  our  neighbours,  until,  Mrs.  Conan  having  come  to 
the  conclusion  that  it  would  be  better  for  her  to  confine  herself 
to  charing,  we  at  last  settled  down  here,  where  I  have  now  lived 
for  many  years. 

“  You  may  be  inclined  to  ask  why  I  had  not  kept  up  my  ac¬ 
quaintance  vvith  my  music-mistress.  I  believe  the  shock  of 
losing  my  father  and  the  misery  that  followed  made  me  feel  as  if 
my  former  world  had  vanished  ;  at  all  events  I  never  thought  of 
going  to  her  until  Mr.  Perkins  one  day,  after  listening  to 
something  I  was  playing,  asked  me  who  had  taught  me ;  and 
this  brought  her  back  to  my  mind  so  vividly  that  I  resolved 
to  go  and  see  her.  She  welcomed  me  with  more  than  kind¬ 
ness — with  tenderness,  and  told  me  I  had  caused  her  much 
uneasiness  by  not  letting  her  know  what  had  become  of  me.  She 
looked  quite  aghast  when  she  learned  in  what  sort  of  place  and 
with  whom  I  lived;  but  I  told  her  that  Mrs.  Conan  had  saved  me 
from  the  workhouse,  and  was  as  much  of  a  mother  to  me  as  it 
was  possible  for  her  to  be,  that  we  loved  each  other,  and  that  it 
would  be  very  wrong  of  me  to  leave  her,  now  especially 
that  she  was  not  so  well  as  she  had  been  ;  and  I  believe  she 
then  saw  the  thing  as  I  saw  it.  She  made  me  play  to  her,  was 
pleased — indeed  surprised,  until  1  told  her  how  I  had  been  sup¬ 
porting  myself — and  insisted  on  my  resuming  my  studies  with 
her,  which  I  was  only  too  glad  to  do.  I  now  of  course  got 
on  much  faster,  and  she  expressed  satisfaction  with  my  pro¬ 
gress,  but  continued  manifestly  uneasy  at  the  kind  of  thing  I 
had  to  encounter,  and  become  of  necessity  more  and  more 
familiar  with. 

“  When  Mrs.  Conan  fell  ill,  I  had  indeed  hard  work  of  it. 
Unlike  most  of  her  class,  she  had  laid  by  a  trifle  of  money,  but 


Her  Story . 


*37 


as  soon  as  she  ceased  to  add  to  it,  it  began  to  dwindle,  and  was 
very  soon  gone.  Do  what  I  could  for  a  while,  if  it  had  not  been 
for  the  kindness  of  the  neighbours,  I  should  sometimes  have 
been  in  want  of  bread ;  and  when  I  hear  hard  things  said  of  the 
poor,  I  often  think  that  surely  improvidence  is  not  so  bad  as 
selfishness.  But,  of  course,  there  are  all  sorts  amongst  them, 
just  as  there  are  all  sorts  in  every  class.  When  I  went  out  to 
teach,  now  one,  now  another  of  the  women  in  the  house 
would  take  charge  of  my  friend  ;  and  when  I  came  home, 
except  her  guardian  happened  to  have  got  tipsy,  I  never  found 
she  had  been  neglected.  Miss  Harper  said  I  must  raise  my 
terms  ;  but  I  told  her  that  would  be  the  loss  of  my  pupils. 
Then  she  said  she  must  see  what  could  be  done  for  me,  only  no 
one  she  knew  was  likely  to  employ  a  child  like  me,  if  I  were  able 
to  teach  ever  so  well.  One  morning,  however,  within  a  week, 
a  note  came  from  Lady  Bernard,  asking  me  to  go  and  see  her. 

“I  went,  and  found— a  mother.  You  do  not  know  her,  I 
think  ?  But  you  must  one  day.  Good  people  like  you  must 
come  together.  I  will  not  attempt  to  describe  her.  She  awed 
me  at  first,  and  I  could  hardly  speak  to  her — I  was  not  much 
more  than  thirteen  then,  but  with  the  awe  came  a  certain  con¬ 
fidence  which  was  far  better  than  ease.  The  immediate  result 
was  that  she  engaged  me  to  go  and  play  for  an  hour  five  days  a 
week,  at  a  certain  hospital  for  sick  children  in  the  neighbour¬ 
hood,  which  she  partly  supported.  For  she  had  a  strong  belief 
that  there  was  in  music  a  great  healing  power.  Her  theory  was 
that  all  healing  energy  operates  first  on  the  mind,  and  from  it 
passes  to  the  body,  and  that  medicines  render  aid  only  by  re¬ 
moving  certain  physical  obstacles  to  the  healing  force.  She  be¬ 
lieves  that  when  music  operating  on  the  mind  has  procured  the 
peace  of  harmony,  the  peace  in  its  turn  operates  outward,  re¬ 
ducing  the  vital  powers  also  into  the  harmonious  action  of 
health.  How  much  there  may  be  in  it,  I  cannot  tell  ;  but  I  do 
think  that  good  has  been  and  is  the  result  of  my  playing  to  those 
children  — for  I  go  still,  though  not  quite  so  often,  and  it  is 
music  to  me  to  watch  my  music  thrown  back  in  light  from  some 


133 


The  Vicar's  Daughter, 

of  those  sweet  pale  suffering  faces.  She  was  too  wise  to  pay  me 
much  for  it  at  first.  She  inquired,  before  making  me  the  offer, 
how  much  I  was  already  earning,  asked  me  upon  how  much  I 
could  support  Mrs.  Conan  and  myself  comfortably,  and  then 
made  the  sum  of  my  weekly  earnings  up  to  that  amount.  At 
the  same  time,  however,  she  sent  many  things  to  warm  and  feed 
the  old  woman,  so  that  my  mind  was  set  at  ease  about  her.  She 
got  a  good  deal  better  for  a  while,  but  continued  to  suffer  so 
much  from  rheumatism,  that  she  was  quite  unfit  to  go  out; 
charing  any  more  ;  and  I  would  not  hear  of  her  again  exposing 
herself  to  the  damps  and  draughts  of  empty  houses,  so  long  as 
I  was  able  to  provide  for  -her — of  which  ability  you  may  be 
sure  I  was  not  a  little  proud  at  first. 

“  I  have  been  talking  for  a  long  time,  and  yet  may  seem  to 
have  said  nothing  to  account  for  your  finding  me  where  she  left 
me ;  but  I  will  try  to  come  to  the  point  as  quickly  as  possible. 

“  Before  she  was  entirely  laid  up,  we  had  removed  to  this 
place — a  rough  shelter,  but  far  less  so  than  some  of  the  houses 
in  which  we  had  been.  I  remember  one  in  which  I  used  to 
dart  up  and  down  like  a  hunted  hare  at  one  time — at  another 
to  steal  along  from  stair  to  stair  like  a  well-meaning  ghost  afraid 
of  frightening  people ;  my  mode  of  procedure  depending  in 
part  on  the  time  of  day,  and  which  of  the  inhabitants  I  had 
reason  to  dread  meeting.  It  was  a  good  while  before  the  in¬ 
mates  of  this  house  and  I  began  to  know  each  other.  The 
landlord  had  turned  out  the  former  tenant  of  this  garret  after 
she  had  been  long  enough  in  the  house  for  all  the  rest  to 
know  her,  and,  notwithstanding  she  had  been  no  great 
'  favourite,  they  all  took  her  part  against  the  landlord  ;  and  fancy¬ 
ing,  perhaps  because  we  kept  more  to  ourselves,  that  we  were 
his  protegees,  and  that  he  had  turned  out  Muggy  Moll,  as  they 
called  her,  to  make  room  for  us,  regarded  us  from  the  first  with 
disapprobation.  The  little  girls  would  make  grimaces  at  me,  and 
the  bigger  girls  would  pull  my  hair,  slap  my  face,  and  even 
occasionally  push  me  down-stairs,  while  the  boys  made  them¬ 
selves  far  more  terrible  in  my  eyes.  But,  some  remark  hap- 


139 


Her  Story. 

pening  tG  be  dropped  one  day,  which  led  the  landlord  to  dis¬ 
claim  all  previous  knowledge  of  us,  things  began  to  grow  better. 
And  this  is  not  by  any  means  one  of  the  worst  parts  of  London. 
I  could  take  Mr.  Walton  to  houses  in  the  East-end,  where  the 
manners  are  indescribable.  We  are  all  earning  our  bread  here. 
Some  have  an  occasional  attack  of  drunkenness,  and  idle 
about;  but  they  are  sick  of  it  again  after  a  while.  I  remember 
asking  a  woman  once  if  her  husband  would  be  present  at  a 
little  entertainment  to  which  Lady  Bernard  had  invited  them  : 
she  answered  that  he  would  be  there  if  he  was  drunk,  but  if  he 
was  sober,  he  couldn’t  spare  the  time. 

“Very  soon  they  began  to  ask  me  after  Mrs.  Conan,  and 
one  day  I  invited  one  of  them,  who  seemed  a  decent  though 
not  very  tidy  woman,  to  walk  up  and  see. her  ;  for  I  was  anxious 
she  should  have  a  visitor  now  and  then  when  I  was  out,  as 
she  complained  a  good  deal  of  the  loneliness.  The  woman 
consented,  and  ever  after  was  very  kind  to  her.  But  my 
main  stay  and  comfort  was  an  old  woman  who  then  occu¬ 
pied  the  room  opposite  to  this.  She  was  such  a  good  creature  ! 
Nearly  blind,  she  yet  kept  her  room  the  very  pink  of  neat¬ 
ness.  I  never  saw  a  speck  of  dust  on  that  chest  of  drawers, 
which  was  hers  then,  and  which  she  valued  far  more  than  many 
a  rich  man  values  the  house  of  his  ancestors — not  only  because 
it  had  been  her  mother’s,  but  because  it  bore  testimony  to  the 
respectability  of  her  family.  Her  floor  and  her  little  muslin 
window  curtain,  her  bed  and  everything  about  her,  were  as 
clean  as  lady  could  desire.  She  objected  to  move  into  abetter 
room  below,  which  the  landlord  kindly  offered  her — for  she 
was  a  favourite  from  having  been  his  tenant  a  long  time  and 
never  having  given  him  any  trouble  in  collecting  her  rent — 
on  the  ground  that  there  were  two  windows  in  it  and  therefore 
too  much  light  for  her  bits  of  furniture.  They  would,  she 
said,  look  nothing  in  that  room.  She  was  very  pleased  when 
I  asked  her  to  pay  a  visit  to  Mrs.  Conan,  and  as  she  belonged 
to  a  far  higher  intellectual  grade  than  my  protectress,  and  as 
she  had  a  strong  practical  sense  of  religion,  chiefly  manifested  ia 


140 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter. 

a  willing  acceptance  of  the  decrees  of  providence,  I  think  she 
did  us  both  good.  I  wish  I  could  draw  you  a  picture  of  her 
coming  in  at  that  door,  with  her  all  but  sightless  eyes,  the 
broad  borders  of  her  white  cap  waving,  and  her  hands 
stretched  out  before  her — for  she  was  more  apprehensive  than 
if  she  had  been  quite  blind,  because  she  could  see  things  with¬ 
out  knowing  what,  or  even  in  what  position  they  were.  The 
most,  remarkable  thing  to  me  was  the  calmness  with  which 
she  looked  forward  toiler  approaching  death,  although  without 
the  expectation  which  so  many  good  people  seem  to  have 
in  connexion  with  their  departure.  I  talked  to  her  about  it 
more  than  once — not  with  any  presumption  of  teaching  her,  for 
I  felt  she  was  far  before  me,  but  just  to  find  out  how  she  felt 
and  what  she  believed.  Her  answer  amounted  to  this,  that  she 
had  never  known  beforehand  what  lay  round  the  next  corner, 
or  what  was  going  to  happen  to  her,  for  if  Providence  had 
meant  her  to  know,  it  could  not  be  by  going  to  fortune-tellers, 
as  some  of  the  neighbours  did ;  but  that  she  always  found 
things  turn  out  right  and  good  for  her,  and  she  did  not  doubt 
she  would  find  it  so  when  she  came  to  the  last  turn. 

“  By  degrees  I  knew  everybody  in  the  house,  and  of  course 
I  was  ready  to  do  what  I  could  to  help  any  of  them.  I  had 
much  to  lift  me  into  a  higher  region  of  mental  comfort  than  was 
open  to  them,  for  I  had  music,  and  Lady  Bernard  lent  me  books. 

“  Of  course  also  I  kept  my  rooms  as  clean  and  tidy  as  I 
could,  and  indeed  if  I  had  been  more  carelessly  inclined  in 
that  way,  the  sight  of  the  blind  woman’s  would  have  been  a 
constant  reminder  to  me.  By  degrees  also  I  was  able  to  get 
a  few  more  articles  of  furniture  for  it,  and  a  bit  of  carpet  to 
put  down  before  the  fire.  I  whitewashed  the  walls  myself, 
and  after  a  while  began  to  whitewash  the  walls  of  the  landing 
as  well,  and  all  down  the  stair,  which  was  not  of  much  use  to 
the  eye,  for  there  is  no  light.  Before  long  some  of  the  other 
tenants  began  to  whitewash  their  rooms  also,  and  contrive  to 
keep  things  a  little  tidier.  Others  declared  they  had  no  opinion 
of  such  uppish  notions ;  they  weren’t  for  the  likes  of  them. 


Her  Story. 


141 

These  were  generally  such  as  would  rejoice  in  wearing  finery 
picked  up  at  the  rag-shop  ;  but  even  some  of  them  began  b)j 
degrees  to  cultivate  a  small  measure  of  order.  Soon  this  one 
and  that  began  to  apply  to  me  for  help  in  various  difficulties 
that  arose.  But  they  didn’t  begin  to  call  me  grannie  for  a 
long  time  after  this.  They  used  then  to  call  the  blind  woman 
grannie,  and  the  name  got  associated  with  the  top  of  the  house, 
and  I  came  to  be  associated  with  it  because  I  also  lived  there 
and  we  were  friends.  After  her  death,  it  was  used  from  habit, 
at  first  with  a  feeling  of  mistake,  seeing  its  immediate  owner 
was  gone ;  but  by  degrees  it  settled  down  upon  me,  and  I 
came  to  be  called  grannie  by  everybody  in  the  house.  Even 
Mrs.  Conan  would  not  unfrequently  address  me,  and  speak  of 
me  too,  as  grannie,  at  first  with  a  laugh,  but  soon  as  a  matter 
of  course. 

“  I  got  by-and-by  a  few  pupils  amongst  tradespeople  of  a 
class  rather  superior  to  that  in  which  I  had  begun  to  teach, 
and  from  whom  I  could  ask  and  obtain  double  my  former  fee ; 
so  that  things  grew,  with  fluctuations,  gradually  better.  Lady 
Bernard  continued  a  true  friend  to  me — but  she  never  was 
other  than  that  to  any.  Some  of  her  friends  ventured  on  the 
experiment  whether  I  could  teach  their  children  ;  and  it  is  no 
wonder  if  they  were  satisfied,  seeing  I  had  myself  such  a  teacher. 

“  Having  come  once  or  twice  to  see  Mrs.  Conan,  she  dis¬ 
covered  that  we  were  gaining  a  little  influence  over  the  people 
in  the  house ;  and  it  occurred  to  her,  as  she  told  me  afterwards, 
that  the  virtue  of  music  might  be  tried  there  with  a  moral  end 
in  view.  Hence  it  came  that  I  was  beyond  measure  astonished 
and  delighted  one  evening  by  the  arrival  of  a  piano — not  that 
one,  for  it  got  more  worn  than  I  liked,  and  I  was  able  after¬ 
wards  to  exchange  it  for  a  better.  I  found  it  an  invaluable 
aid  in  the  endeavour  to  work  out  my  growing  desire  of  getting 
the  people  about  me  into  a  better  condition.  First  I  asked 
some  of  the  children  to  come  and  listen  while  I  played. 
Everybody  knows  how  fond  the  least  educated  children  are  of 
music;  and  I  feel  assured  of  its  elevating  pow er.  Whatever 


142  The  Vicar  £  Daughter. 

the  street  organs  may  be  to  poets  and  mathematicians,  they 
are  certainly  a  godsend  to  the  children  of  our  courts  and  alleys. 
The  music  takes  possession  of  them  at  once,  and  sets  them 
moving  to  it  with  rhythmical  grace.  I  should  have  been  very 
sorry  to  make  it  a  condition  with  those  I  invited,  that  they 
should  sit  still :  to  take  from  them  their  personal  share  in  it, 
would  have  been  to  destroy  half  the  charm  of  the  thing.  A 
far  higher  development  is  needful  before  music  can  be  enjoyed 
in  silence  and  motionlessness.  The  only  condition  I  made 
was,  that  they  should  come  with  clean  hands  and  faces,  and 
with  tidy  hair.  Considerable  indignation  was  at  first  manifested 
on  the  part  of  those  parents  whose  children  I  refused  to  admit 
because  they  had  neglected  the  condition.  This  necessity 
however  did  not  often  occur,  and  the  anger  passed  away,  while 
the  condition  gathered  weight.  After  a  while,  guided  by  what 
some  of  the  children  let  fall,  I  began  to  invite  the  mothers  to 
join  them ;  and  at  length  it  came  to  be  understood  that,  every 
Saturday  evening,  whoever  chose  to  make  herself  tidy  would 
be  welcome  to  an  hour  or  two  of  my  music.  Some  of  the  hus¬ 
bands  next  began  to  come,  but  there  were  never  so  many  of 
them  present.  I  may  just  add  that  although  the  manners  of 
some  of  my  audience  would  be  very  shocking  to  cultivated 
people,  and  I  understand  perfectly  how  they  must  be  so,  I  am 
very  rarely  annoyed  on  such  occasions. 

“  I  must  now  glance  at  another  point  in  my  history — one  on 
which  I  cannot  dwell.  Never  since  my  father’s  death  had  I 
attended  public  worship.  Nothing  had  drawn  me  thither ; 
and  I  hardly  know  what  induced  me  one  evening  to  step  into 
a  chapel  of  which  I  knew  nothing.  There  was  not  even 
Sunday  to  account  for  it.  I  believe,  however,  it  had  to  do 
with  this — that  all  day  I  had  been  feeling  tired.  I  think  people 
are  often  ready  to  suppose  that  their  bodily  condition  is  the 
cause  of  their  spiritual  discomfort,  when  it  may  be  only  the 
occasion  upon  which  some  inward  lack  reveals  itself.  That 
the  spiritual  nature  should  be  incapable  of  meeting  and  sustain¬ 
ing  the  body  in  its  troubles,  is  of  itself  sufficient  to  show  that 


M3 


Her  Story. 

it  is  not  in  a  satisfactory  condition.  For  a  long  time  the 
struggle  for  mere  existence  had  almost  absorbed  my  energies  * 
but  things  had  been  easier  for  some  time,  a  reaction  had  at 
length  come.  It  was  not  that  I  could  lay  anything  definite 
to  my  own  charge ;  I  only  felt  empty  all  through  ;  I  felt  that 
something  was  not  right  with  me,  that  something  was  required 
of  me  which  I  was  not  rendering.  I  could  not  however  have 
told  you  what  it  was.  Possibly  the  feeling  had  been  for  some 
time  growing ;  but  that  day,  so  far  as  I  can  tell,  I  was  first 
aware  of  it ;  and  I  presume  it  was  the  dim  cause  of  my  turning 
at  the  sound  of  a  few  singing  voices,  and  entering  that  chapel. 
I  found  about  a  dozen  people  present.  Something  in  the  air 
of  the  place,  meagre  and  waste  as  it  looked,  yet  induced  me  to 
remain.  An  address  followed  from  a  pale-faced,  weak-looking 
man  of  middle  age,  who  had  no  gift  of  person,  voice,  or  utter¬ 
ance  to  recommend  what  he  said.  But  there  dwelt  a  more 
powerful  enforcement  in  him  than  any  of  those— that  of 
earnestness.  I  went  again  and  again  ;  and  slowly,  I  cannot 
well  explain  how,  the  sense  of  life  and  its  majesty  grew  upon 
me.  Mr.  Walton  will,  I  trust,  understand  me  when  I  say,  that 
to  one  hungering  for  bread,  it  is  of  little  consequence  in  what 
sort  of  platter  it  is  handed  him.  This  was  a  dissenting  chapel 
- — of  what  order,  it  was  long  before  I  knew — and  my  predilec¬ 
tion  was  for  the  Church-services,  those  to  which  my  father  had 
accustomed  me ;  but  any  comparison  of  the  two  to  the  pre¬ 
judice  of  either,  I  should  still — although  a  communicant  of  the 
church  of  England — regard  with  absolute  indifference. 

“It  will  be  sufficient  for  my  present  purpose  to  allude  to  the 
one  practical  thought  which  was  the  main  fruit  I  gathered  from 
this  good  man — the  fruit  by  which  I  know  that  he  was  good.1 
It  was  this — tha*-  if  all  the  labour  of  God,  as  my  teacher  said, 
was  to  bring  sor.s  into  glory,  lifting  them  out  of  the  abyss  of 
evil  bondage  u’j  to  the  rock  of  his  pure  freedom,  the  only 

1  Something  like  this  is  the  interpretation  of  the  word  :  “  By  their 
fruits  ye  shall  know  them/’  given  by  Mr.  Maurice — an  interpreta^ 
tion  whick  opens  much. — G.  M.  D. 


144 


The  Vicar's  Daughter . 

worthy  end  of  life  must  be  to  work  in  the  same  direction — to 
be  a  fellow-worker  with  God.  Might  I  not  then  do  something 
such,  in  my  small  way,  and  lose  no  jot  of  my  labour  ?  I  thought. 
The  urging,  the  hope  grew  in  me.  But  I  was  not  left  to  feel 
blindly  after  some  new  and  unknown  method  of  labour.  My 
teacher  taught  me  that  the  way  for  me  to  help  others,  was  not 
to  tell  them  their  duty,  but  myself  to  learn  of  him  who  bore 
our  griefs  and  carried  our  sorrows.  As  I  learned  of  him,  I 
should  be  able  to  help  them.  I  have  never  had  any  theory 
but  just  to  be  their  friend — to  do  for  them  the  best  I  can. 
When  I  feel  I  may,  I  tell  them  what  has  done  me  good,  but  I 
never  urge  any  belief  of  mine  upon  their  acceptance. 

“  It  will  now  seem  no  more  wonderful  to  you  than  to  me, 
that  I  should  remain  where  I  am.  I  simply  have  no  choice. 
I  was  sixteen  when  Mrs.  Conan  died.  Then  my  friends, 
amongst  whom  Lady  Bernard  and  Miss  Harper  have  ever  been 
first,  expected  me  to  remove  to  lodgings  in  another  neighbour¬ 
hood.  Indeed,  Lady  Bernard  came  to  see  me,  and  said  she 
knew  precisely  the  place  for  me.  When  I  told  her  I  should 
remain  where  I  was,  she  was  silent,  and  soon  left  me — I  thought 
offended.  I  wrote  to  her  at  once,  explaining  why  I  chose  my 
part  here  ;  saying  that  I  would  not  hastily  alter  anything  that 
had  been  appointed  me ;  that  I  loved  the  people  ;  that  they 
called  me  grannie;  that  they  came  to  me  with  their  troubles; 
that  there  were  few  changes  in  the  house  now ;  that  the  sick 
looked  to  me  for  help,  and  the  children  for  teaching;  that 
they  seemed  to  be  steadily  rising  in  the  moral  scale  ;  that  I 
knew  some  of  them  were  trying  hard  to  be  good  ;  and  I  put  it 
to  her  whether,  if  I  were  to  leave  them,  in  order  merely,  as 
servants  say,  to  better  myself,  I  should  not  be  forsaking  my 
post,  almost  my  family ;  for  I  knew  it  would  not  be  to  better 
either  myself  or  my  friends  :  if  I  was  at  all  necessary  to  them, 
I  knew  they  were  yet  more  necessary  to  me. 

“  I  have  a  burning  desire  to  help  in  the  making  of  the  world 
clean — if  it  be  only  by  sweeping  one  little  room  in  it.  I  want 
to  lead  some  poor  stray  sheep  home — not  home  to  the  church, 


A  Remarkable  Fact . 


145 


Mr.  Walton — I  would  not  be  supposed  to  curry  favour  with 
you.  I  never  think  of  what  they  call  the  church.  I  only  care 
to  lead  them  home  to  the  bosom  of  God,  where  alone  man  is 
true  man. 

“  I  could  talk  to  you  all  night  about  what  Lady  Bernard 
has  been  to  me  since,  and  what  she  has  done  for  me  and  my 
grandchildren ;  but  I  have  said  enough  to  explain  how  it  is 
that  I  am  in  such  a  questionable  position.  I  fear  I  have  been 
guilty  of  much  egotism,  and  have  shown  my  personal  feelings 
with  too  little  reserve.  But  I  cast  myself  on  your  mercy.” 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

A  REMARKABLE  FACT. 

A  silence  followed.  I  need  hardly  say  we  had  listened  in¬ 
tently.  During  the  story  my  father  had  scarcely  interrupted 
the  narrator.  I  had  not  spoken  a  word.  She  had  throughout 
maintained  a  certain  matter-of-fact,  almost  cold  style,  no  doubt 
because  she  was  herself  the  subject  of  her  story;  but  we  could 
read  between  the  lines,  imagine  much  she  did  not  say,  and 
supply  colour  when  she  gave  only  outline ;  and  it  moved  us 
both  deeply.  My  father  sat  perfectly  composed,  betraying  his 
emotion  in  silence  alone.  For  myself,  I  had  a  great  lump  in 
my  throat,  but  in  part  from  the  shame  which  mingled  with  my 
admiration.  The  silence  had  not  lasted  more  than  a  few 
seconds,  when  I  yielded  to  a  struggling  impulse,  rose,  and 
kneeling  before  her,  put  my  hands  on  her  knees,  said,  “  For¬ 
give  me,”  and  could  say  no  more.  She  put  her  hand  on  my 
shoulder,  whispered,  “  My  dear  Mrs.  Percivale  !  ”  bent  down 
her  face  and  kissed  me  on  the  forehead. 

“  How  could  you  help  being  shy  of  me?  ”  she  said.  “  Per- 

L 


146 


The  Vicar's  Daughter . 

haps  I  ought  to  have  come  to  you  and  explained  it  all ;  but  I 
shrink  from  self-justification — at  least  before  a  fit  opportunity 
makes  it  comparatively  easy.” 

“  That  is  the  way  to  give  it  all  its  force,”  remarked  my 
father. 

“  I  suppose  it  may  be,”  she  returned.  “  But  I  hate  talking 
about  myself ;  it  is  an  unpleasant  subject.” 

“  Most  people  do  not  find  it  such,”  said  my  father.  “  I 
could  not  honestly  say  that  I  do  not  enjoy  talking  of  my  own 
experiences  of  life.” 

“  But  there  are  differences,  you  see,”  she  rejoined.  “  My 
history  looks  to  me  such  a  matter  of  course,  such  a  something 
I  could  not  help,  or  have  avoided  if  I  would,  that  the  telling 
of  it  is  unpleasant,  because  it  implies  an  importance  which 
does  not  belong  to  it.” 

“  St.  Paul  says  something  of  the  same  sort — that  a  necessity 
of  preaching  the  gospel  was  laid  upon  him,”  remarked  my 
father  ;  but  it  seemed  to  make  no  impression  on  Miss  Clare, 
for  she  went  on  as  if  she  had  not  heard  him. 

“  You  see,  Mr.  Walton,  it  is  not  in  the  least  as  if  living  in 
comfort  I  had  taken  notice  of  the  misery  of  the  poor  for  ;he 
want  of  such  sympathy  and  help  as  I  could  give  them,  and 
had  therefore  gone  to  live  amongst  them  that  I  might  so  help 
them  :  it  is  quite  different  from  that.  If  I  had  done  so,  I 
might  be  in  danger  of  magnifying  not  merely  my  office  but  my¬ 
self.  On  the  contrary,  I  have  been  trained  to  it  in  such  slow 
and  necessitous  ways,  that  it  would  be  a  far  greater  trial  to  me 
to  forsake  my  work  than  it  has  ever  been  to  continue  it.” 

My  father  said  no  more,  but  I  knew  he  had  his  own  thoughts. 
I  remained  kneeling,  and  felt  for  the  first  time  as  if  I  under¬ 
stood  what  had  led  to  saint-worship. 

“  Won’t  you  sit,  Mrs.  Percivale  ?  ”  she  said,  as  if  merely  ex¬ 
postulating  with  me  for  not  making  myself  comfortable. 

“  Have  you  forgiven  me  ?  ”  I  asked. 

“  How  can  I  say  I  have,  when  I  never  had  anything  to 
forgive  ?  ” 


A  Remarkable  Fact .  147 

“  Well  then  I  must  go  unforgiven,  for  I  cannot  forgive  my¬ 
self/’  I  said. 

“  Oh,  Mrs.  Percivale,  if  you  think  how  the  world  is  flooded 
with  forgiveness,  you  will  just  dip  in  your  cup  and  take  what 
you  want.” 

I  felt  that  I  was  making  too  much  even  of  my  own  shame, 
rose  humbled,  and  took  my  former  seat. 

Narration  being  over,  and  my  father’s  theory  now  permitting 
him  to  ask  questions,  he  did  so  plentifully,  bringing  out  many 
lights,  and  elucidating  several  obscurities.  The  story  grew 
upon  me,  until  the  work  to  which  Miss  Clare  had  given  her¬ 
self  seemed  more  like  that  of  the  Son  of  God  than  any  other 
I  knew.  For  she  was  not  helping  her  friends  from  afar,  but  as 
one  of  themselves — nor  with  money  but  with  herself ;  she  was 
not  condescending  to  them,  but  finding  her  highest  life  in 
companionship  with  them.  It  seemed  at  least  more  like  what 
his  life  must  have  been  before  he  was  thirty  than  anything  else 
I  could  think  of.  I  held  my  peace  however,  for  I  felt  that  to 
hint  at  such  a  thought  would  have  greatly  shocked  and  pained 
her. 

No  doubt  the  narrative  I  have  given  is  plainer  and  more 
coherent  for  the  questions  my  father  put ;  but  it  loses  much 
from  the  omission  of  one  or  two  parts  which  she  gave  dramati¬ 
cally,  with  evident  enjoyment  of  the  fun  that  was  in  them.  I 
have  also  omitted  all  the  interruptions  which  came  from  her 
not  unfrequent  reference  to  my  father  on  points  that  came  up. 
At  length  I  ventured  to  remind  her  of  something  she  seemed 
to  have  forgotten. 

“  When  you  were  telling  us,  Miss  Clare,”  I  said,  “  of  the 
help  that  came  to  you  that  dreary  afternoon  in  the  empty  house, 
I  think  you  mentioned  that  something  which  happened  after¬ 
wards  made  it  still  more  remarkable.” 

“Oh,  yes,”  she  answered;  “I  forgot  about  that.  I  did  not 
carry  my  history  far  enough  to  be  reminded  of  it  again.” 

“  Somewhere  about  five  years  ago,  Lady  Bernard,  having 
several  schemes  on  foot  for  helping  such  people  as  I  was  in- 

1,  2 


148 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter. 

terested  in,  asked  me  if  it  would  not  be  nice  to  give  an  enter¬ 
tainment  to  my  friends,  and  as  many  of  the  neighbours  as  I 
pleased,  to  the  number  of  about  a  hundred.  She  wanted  to 
put  the  thing  entirely  in  my  hands,  and  it  should  be  my 
entertainment,  she  claiming  only  the  privilege  of  defraying  ex¬ 
penses.  I  told  her  I  should  be  delighted  to  convey  her  invita¬ 
tion,  but  that  the  entertainment  must  not  pretend  to  be  mine ; 
which,  besides  that  it  would  be  a  falsehood,  and  therefore  not 
to  be  thought  of,  would  perplex  my  friends,  and  drive  them  to 
the  conclusion  either  that  it  was  not  mine,  or  that  I  lived 
amongst  them  under  false  appearances.  She  confessed  the 
force  of  my  arguments,  and  let  me  have  it  my  own  way. 

“  She  had  bought  a  large  house  to  be  a  home  for  young 
women  out  of  employment,  and  in  it  she  proposed  the  enter¬ 
tainment  should  be  given  :  there  were  a  good  many  nice  young 
women  inmates  at  the  time,  who,  she  said,  would  be  all  willing 
to  help  us  to  wait  upon  our  guests.  The  idea  was  carried  out, 
and  the  thing  succeeded  admirably.  We  had  music  and  games, 
the  latter  such  as  the  children  were  mostly  acquainted  with, 
Dnly  producing  more  merriment  and  conducted  with  more  pro¬ 
priety  than  were  usual  in  the  court  or  the  street.  I  may  just 
remark,  in  passing,  that  had  these  been  children  of  the  poorest 
sort,  we  should  have  had  to  teach  them,  for  one  of  the  saddest 
things  is  that  such,  in  London  at  least,  do  not  know  how  to 
play.  VVe  had  tea  and  coffee,  and  biscuits  in  the  lower  rooms, 
for  any  who  pleased,  and  they  were  to  have  a  solid  supper 
afterwards.  With  none  of  the  arrangements  however  had  I 
anything  to  do,  for  my  business  was  to  be  with  them,  and  help 
them  to  enjoy  themselves.  All  went  on  capitally,  the  parents 
entering  into  the  merriment  of  their  children,  and  helping  to 
keep  it  up. 

“  In  one  of  the  games,  I  was  seated  on  the  floor  with  a 
handkerchief  tied  over  my  eyes,  waiting,  I  believe,  for  some 
gentle  trick  to  be  played  upon  me,  that  I  might  guess  at  the 
name  of  the  person  who  played  it.  There  was  a  delay — of 
only  a  few  seconds — long  enough  however  for  a  sudden  return 


A  Remarkable  Fact. 


149 


of  that  dreary  November  afternoon  in  which  I  sat  on  the  floor 
too  miserable  even  to  think  that  I  was  cold  and  hungry. 
Strange  to  say  it  was  not  the  picture  of  it  that  came  back  to 
me  first,  but  the  sound  of  my  own  voice  calling  aloud  in  the 
ringing  echo  of  the  desolate  rooms  that  I  was  of  no  use  to 
anybody,  and  that  God  had  forgotten  me  utterly.  With  the 
recollection,  a  doubtful  expectation  arose  which  moved  me  to 
a  scarce  controllable  degree.  I  jumped  to  my  feet,  and  tore 
the  bandage  from  my  eyes. 

“  Several  times  during  the  evening  I  had  had  the  odd  yet 
well  known  feeling  of  the  same  thing  having  happened  before ; 
but  I  was  too  busy  entertaining  my  friends  to  try  to  account 
for  it :  perhaps  what  followed  may  suggest  the  theory  that  in 
not  a  few  of  such  cases  the  indistinct  remembrance  of  the  pre¬ 
vious  occurrence  of  some  portion  of  the  circumstances  may 
cast  the  hue  of  memory  over  the  whole.  As — my  eyes  blinded 
with  the  light  and  straining  to  recover  themselves — I  stared 
about  the  room,  the  presentiment  grew  almost  conviction  that 
it  was  the  very  room  in  which  I  had  so  sat  in  desolation  and 
despair.  Unable  to  restrain  myself,  I  hurried  into  the  back 
room  :  there  was  the  cabinet  beyond  !  In  a  few  moments 
more,  I  was  absolutely  satisfied  that  this  was  indeed  the  house 
in  which  I  had  first  found  refuge.  For  a  time  I  could  take  no 
further  share  in  what  was  going  on,  but  sat  down  in  a  corner 
and  cried  for  joy.  Some  one  went  for  Lady  Bernard,  who 
was  superintending  the  arrangements  for  supper  in  the  music- 
room  behind.  She  came  in  alarm.  I  told  her  there  was  no¬ 
thing  the  matter  but  a  little  too  much  happiness,  and  if  she 
would  come  into  the  cabinet,  I  would  tell  her  all  about  it. 
She  did  so,  and  a  few  words  made  her  a  hearty  sharer  in  my 
pleasure.  She  insisted  that  I  should  tell  the  company  all 
about  it,  ‘  for,’  she  said,  ‘  you  do  not  know  how  much  it  may 
help  some  poor  creature  to  trust  in  God.’  I  promised  I  would, 
if  I  found  I  could  command  myself  sufficiently.  She  left  me 
alone  for  a  little  while,  and  after  that  I  was  able  to  join  in  the 
games  again. 


150  The  Vicar's  Daughter . 

“  At  supper  I  found  myself  quite  composed,  and  at  Lady 
Bernard’s  request  stood  up,  and  gave  them  all  a  little  sketch 
of  grannie’s  history,  of  which  sketch  what  had  happened  that 
evening  was  made  the  central  point.  Many  of  the  simpler 
hearts  about  me  received  it,  without  question,  as  a  divine  ar¬ 
rangement  for  my  comfort  and  encouragement — at  least,  thus 
I  interpreted  their  looks  to  each  other,  and  the  remarks  that 
reached  my  ear  ;  but  presently  a  man  stood  up — one  who 
thought  more  than  the  rest  of  them,  perhaps  because  he  was 
blind— a  man  at  once  conceited,  honest,  and  sceptical ;  and 
silence  having  been  made  for  him — ‘  Ladies  and  gentlemen/ 
he  began,  as  if  he  had  been  addressing  a  public  meeting,  ‘  you’ve 
all  heard  what  grannie  has  said.  It’s  very  kind  of  her  to  give 
us  so  much  of  her  history.  It’s  a  very  remarkable  one,  /  think, 
and  she  deserved  to  have  it.  As  to  what  upset  her  this  very 
night  as  is — and  I  must  say  for  her,  I’ve  knowed  her  now  for 
six  years,  and  I  never  knowed  her  upset  afore — and  as  to  what 
upset  her,  all  I  can  say  is,  it  may  or  may  not  ha’  been  what 
phylosophers  call  a  coincydence  ;  but,  at  the  same  time,  if  it 
wasn’t  a  coincydence,  and  if  the  Almighty  had  a  hand  in  it,  it 
were  no  more  than  you  might  expect.  He  would  look  at  it  in 
this  light,  you  see,  that  maybe  she  was  wrong  to  fancy  herself 
so  down  on  her  luck  as  all  that,  but  she  was  a  good  soul  not- 
withstandin’,  and  he  would  let  her  know  he  hadn’t  forgotten 
her.  And  so  he  set  her  down  in  that  room  there,  wi’  her  eyes 
like  them  here  o’  mine,  as  never  was  no  manner  o’  use  to  me 
—  for  a  minute,  jest  to  put  her  in  mind  o’  what  had  been,  and 
what  she  had  said  there,  an’  how  it  was  all  so  different  now. 
In  my  opinion,  it  were  no  wonder  as  she  broke  down,  God 
bless  her  !  I  beg  leave  to  propose  her  health.’  So  they  drank 
my  health  in  lemonade  and  ginger-beer,  for  we  were  afraid  to 
give  some  of  them  stronger  drink  than  that,  and  therefore  had 
none.  Then  we  had  more  music  and  singing,  and  a  clergy¬ 
man,  who  knew  how  to  be  neighbour  to  them  that  had  fallen 
among  thieves,  read  a  short  chapter  and  a  collect  or  two,  and 
said  a  few  words  to  them.  Then  grannie  and  her  children 


A  Remarkable  Fact.  1 51 

went  home  together,  all  happy,  but  grannie  the  happiest  of  them 
all.” 

“  Strange  and  beautiful  !  ”  said  my  father.  “  But,”  he  added, 
after  a  pause,  “  you  must  have  met  with  many  strange  and 
beautiful  things  in  such  a  life  as  yours ;  for  it  seems  to  me  that 
such  a  life  is  open  to  the  entrance  of  all  simple  wonders. 
Conventionality  and  routine  and  arbitrary  law  banish  their  very 
approach.” 

“  I  believe,”  said  Miss  Clare,  “  that  every  life  has  its  own 
private  experience  of  the  strange  and  beautiful.  But  I  have 
sometimes  thought  that  perhaps  God  took  pains  to  bar  out 
such  things  of  the  sort  as  we  should  be  no  better  for.  The 
reason  why  Lazarus  was  not  allowed  to  visit  the  brothers  of 
Dives,  was  that  the  repentance  he  would  have  urged  would  not 
have  followed,  and  they  would  have  been  only  the  worse  in 
consequence.” 

“  Admirably  said,”  remarked  my  father. 

Before  we  took  our  leave,  I  had  engaged  Miss  Cl  ire  to  dine 
w;th  us  while  my  father  was  in  town. 


I$2 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter • 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

LADY  BERNARD. 

When  she  came  we  had  no  other  guest,  and  so  had  plenty  of 
talk  with  her.  Before  dinner  I  showed  her  my  husband’s 
pictures,  and  she  was  especially  pleased  with  that  which  hung  in 
the  little  room  off  the  study,  which  I  called  my  boudoir — a 
very  ugly  word,  by  the  way,  which  I  am  trying  to  give  up— 
with  a  curtain  before  it.  My  father  has  described  it  in  the 
“  Seaboard  Parish  :  ”  a  pauper  lies  dead,  and  they  are  bringing 
in  his  coffin.  She  said  it  was  no  wonder  it  had  not  been  sold, 
notwithstanding  its  excellence  and  force ;  and  asked  if  I  would 
allow  her  to  bring  Lady  Bernard  to  see  it.  After  dinner 
Percivale  had  a  long  talk  with  her,  and  succeeded  in  persuading 
her  to  sit  to  him;  not  however  before  I  had  joined  my  en¬ 
treaties  with  his,  and  my  father  had  insisted  that  her  face  was 
not  her  own,  but  belonged  to  all  her  kind. 

The  very  next  morning  she  came  with  Lady  Bernard.  The 
latter  said  she  knew  my  husband  well  by  reputation,  and  had, 
before  our  marriage,  asked  him  to  her  house,  but  had  not  been 
fortunate  enough  to  possess  sufficient  attraction.  Percivale 
was  much  taken  with  her,  notwithstanding  a  certain  coldness, 
almost  sternness  of  manner,  which  was  considerably  repellent — 
but  only  for  the  first  few  moments,  for  when  her  eyes  lighted 
up,  the  whole  thing  vanished.  She  was  much  pleased  with 
some  of  his  pictures,  criticizing  freely,  and  with  evident  under¬ 
standing.  The  immediate  result  was  that  she  bought  both  the 
pauper  picture  and  that  of  the  dying  knight. 

“  But  I  am  sorry  to  deprive  your  lovely  room  of  such  treasures, 
Mrs.  Percivale,”  she  said,  with  a  kind  smile. 

“  Of  course  I  shall  miss  them,”  I  returned  ;  “  but  the  thought, 
that  you  have  them  will  console  me.  Besides,  it  is  good  to 
have  a  change,  and  there  are  only  too  many  lying  in  the  study, 
from  which  he  will  let  me  choose  to  supply  their  place.” 


Lady  Bernard.  153 

“Will  you  let  me  come  and  see  which  you  have  chosen  ?” 

she  asked. 

“With  the  greatest  pleasure,”  I  answered. 

“  And  will  you  come  and  see  me  ?  Do  you  think  you  could 
persuade  your  husband  to  bring  you  to  dine  with  me  ?  ” 

I  told  her  I  could  promise  the  one  with  more  than  pleasure, 
and  had  little  doubt  of  being  able  to  do  the  other,  now  that  my 
husband  had  seen  her. 

A  reference  to  my  husband’s  dislike  to  fashionable  society 
followed,  and  I  had  occasion  to  mention  his  feeling  about  being 
asked  without  me.  Of  the  latter  Lady  Bernard  expressed  the 
warmest  approval ;  and  of  the  former,  said  that  it  would  have 
no  force  in  respect  of  her  parties,  for  they  were  not  at  all 
fashionable. 

This  was  the  commencement  of  a  friendship  for  which  we 
have  much  cause  to  thank  God.  Nor  do  we  forget  that  it  came 
through  Miss  Clare. 

I  confess  1  felt  glorious  over  my  cousin  Judy;  but  I  would 
bide  my  time.  Now  that  I  am  wiser  and  I  hope  a  little  better, 
I  see  that  I  was  rather  spiteful ;  but  I  thought  then  I  was  only 
jealous  for  my  new  and  beautiful  friend.  Perhaps  having 
wronged  her  myself  I  was  the  more  ready  to  take  vengeance  on 
her  wrongs  from  the  hands  of  another — which  was  just  the 
opposite  feeling  to  that  I  ought  to  have  had. 

In  the  mean  time  our  intimacy  with  Miss  Clare  grew.  She 
interested  me  in  many  of  her  schemes  for  helping  the  poor — 
some  of  which  were  for  providing  them  with  work  in  hard  times, 
but  more,  for  giving  them  an  interest  in  life  itself,  without 
which,  she  said,  no  one  would  begin  to  inquire  into  its  relations 
and  duties.  One  of  her  positive  convictions  was  that  you  ought 
not  to  give  them  anything  they  ought  to  provide  for  themselves, 
such  as  food  or  clothing  or  shelter.  In  such  circumstances  as 
rendered  it  impossible  for  them  to  do  so,  the  ought  was 
in  abeyance.  But  she  heartily  approved  of  making  them  an 
occasional  present  of  something  they  could  not  be  expected  to 
procure  for  themselves — flowers,  for  instance.  “  You  would 


154 


The  Vicar's  Daughter . 

not  imagine,”  I  have  heard  her  say,  “  how  they  delight  in 
flowers.  All  the  finer  instincts  of  their  being  are  drawn  to  the 
surface  at  the  sight  of  them.  I  am  sure  they  prize  and  enjoy 
them  far  more,  not  merely  than  most  people  with  gardens  and 
greenhouses  do,  but  far  more  even  than  they  would  if  they 
were  deprived  of  them.  A  gift  of  that  sort  can  only  do  them 
good.  But  I  would  rather  give  a  workman  a  gold  watch  than 
a  leg  of  mutton.  By  a  present  you  mean  a  compliment ;  and 
none  feel  more  grateful  for  such  an  acknowledgment  of  your 
human  relation  to  them,  than  those  who  look  up  to  you  as  their 
superior.” 

Once  when  she  was  talking  thus  I  ventured  to  object,  for  the 
sake  of  hearing  her  further. 

“  But,”  I  said,  “  sometimes  the  most  precious  thing  you  can 
give  a  man  is  just  that  compassion  which  you  seem  to  think 
destroys  the  value  of  a  gift.” 

“  When  compassion  itself  is  precious  to  a  man,”  she  answered, 
“  it  must  be  because  he  loves  you,  and  believes  you  love  him. 
When  that  is  the  case,  you  may  give  him  anything  you  like, 
and  it  will  do  neither  you  nor  him  harm.  But  the  man  of  in¬ 
dependent  feeling,  except  he  be  thus  your  friend,  will  not  un¬ 
likely  resent  your  compassion,  while  the  beggar  will  accept  it 
chiefly  as  a  pledge  for  something  more  to  be  got  from  you ;  and 
so  it  will  tend  to  keep  him  in  beggary.” 

“  Would  you  never,  then,  give  money  or  any  of  the  necessaries 
of  life,  except  in  extreme  and,  on  the  part  of  the  receiver,  un¬ 
avoidable  necessity  ?  ”  I  asked. 

“  I  would  not,”  she  answered ;  “  but  in  the  case  where  a 
man  cannot  help  himself,  the  very  suffering  makes  a  way  for  the 
love  which  is  more  than  compassion  to  manifest  itself.  In 
every  other  case,  the  true  way  is  to  provide  them  with  work, 
which  is  itself  a  good  thing,  besides  what  they  gain  by  it.  If  a 
man  will  not  work,  neither  should  he  eat.  It  must  be  work 
with  an  object  in  it,  however;  it  must  not  be  mere  labour,  such 
as  digging  a  hole  and  filling  it  up  again,  of  which  I  have  heard. 
No  man  cculd  help  resentment  at  being  set  to  such  work. 


i55 


Lady  Bernard. 

You  ought  to  let  him  feel  that  he  is  giving  something  of  value 
to  you  for  the  money  you  give  to  him.  But  I  have  known  a 
whole  district  so  corrupted  and  degraded  by  clerical  alms-giving, 
that  one  of  the  former  recipients  of  it  declared,  as  spokesman 
for  the  rest,  that  threepence  given  was  far  more  acceptable  than 
five  shillings  earned.” 

A  good  part  of  the  little  time  I  could  spare  from  my  own 
family  was  now  spent  with  Miss  Clare  in  her  work,  through 
which  it  was  chiefly  that  we  became  by  degrees  intimate  with 
Lady  Bernard.  If  ever  there  was  a  woman  who  lived  this  outer 
life  for  the  sake  of  others,  it  was  she.  Her  inner  life  was,  as  it 
were,  sufficient  for  herself,  and  found  its  natural  outward 
expression  in  blessing  others.  She  was  like  a  fountain  of  living 
water  that  could  find  no  vent  but  into  the  lives  of  her  fellows. 
She  had  suffered  more  than  falls  to  the  ordinary  lot  of  women, 
in  those  who  were  related  to  her  most  nearly,  and  for  many 
years  had  looked  for  no  personal  blessing  from  without.  She 
said  to  me  once  that  she  could  not  think  of  anything  that  could 
happen  to  herself  to  make  her  very  happy  now — except  a  loved 
grandson,  who  was  leading  a  strange  wild  life,  were  to  turn  out 
a  Harry  the  Fifth — a  consummation  which,  however  devoutly 
wished,  was  not  granted  her,  for  the  young  man  died  shortly 
after.  I  believe  no  one,  not  even  Miss  Clare,  knew  Jialf  the 
munificent  things  she  did,  or  what  an  immense  proportion  of 
her  large  income  she  spent  upon  other  people.  But,  as  she  said 
herself,  no  one  understood  the  worth  of  money  better;  and  no 
one  liked  better  to  have  the  worth  of  it ;  therefore  she  always 
administered  her  charity  with  some  view  to  the  value  of  the 
probable  return — with  some  regard,  that  is,  to  the  amount  of 
good  likely  to  result  to  others  from  the  aid  given  to  one.  She 
always  took  into  consideration  whether  the  good  w7as  likely  to 
be  propagated,  or  to  die  with  the  receiver.  She  confessed  to 
frequent  mistakes,  but  such,  she  said,  was  the  principle  upon 
which  she  sought  to  regulate  that  part  of  her  stewardship. 

1  wish  I  could  give  a  photograph  of  her.  She  was  slight, 
and  appeared  taller  than  she  was,  being  rather  stately  than 


156 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter. 

graceful,  with  a  commanding  forehead  and  still  blue  eyes:  She 
gave  at  first  the  impression  of  coldness  with  a  touch  of 
haughtiness.  But  this  was,  I  think,  chiefly  the  result  of  her  in¬ 
herited  physique \  for  the  moment  her  individuality  appeared, 
when  her  being,  that  is,  came  into  contact  with  that  of  another, 
all  this  impression  vanished  in  the  light  that  flashed  into  her 
eyes,  and  the  smile  that  illumined  her  face.  Never  did  woman 
of  rank  step  more  triumphantly  over  the  barriers  which  the 
cumulated  custom  of  aees  has  built  between  the  classes  of 
society.  She  laid  great  stress  on  good  manners,  little  on  what 
is  called  good  birth  ;  although  to  the  latter,  in  its  deep  and  true 
sense,  she  attributed  the  greatest  a  priori  value,  as  the  ground  of 
obligation  in  the  possessor,  and  of  expectation  on  the  part  of 
others.  But  I  shall  have  an  opportunity  of  showing  more  of 
what  she  thought  on  this  subject  presently,  for  I  bethink  me 
that  it  occupied  a  great  part  of  our  conversation  at  a  certain 
little  gathering,  of  which  I  am  now  going  to  give  an  account 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

MY  SECOND  DINNER-PARTY. 

For  I  judged  that  I  might  now  give  another  little  dinner :  I 
thought  that,  as  Percivale  had  been  doing  so  well  lately,  he 
might  afford,  with  his  knowing  brother’s  help,  to  provide,  for 
his  part  of  the  entertainment,  what  might  be  good  enough  to 
offer  even  to  Mr.  Morley  ;  and  I  now  knew  Lady  Bernard  suffi¬ 
ciently  well  to  know  also  that  she  would  willingly  accept  an  in¬ 
vitation  from  me,  and  would  be  pleased  to  meet  Miss  Clare, 
or  indeed,  would  more  likely  bring  her  with  her. 

I  proposed  the  dinner,  and  Percivale  consented  to  it.  My 
main  object  being  the  glorification  of  Miss  Clare,  who  had 
more  engagements  of  one  kind  and  another  than  anybody  X 


My  Second  Dinner -  Party .  15; 

fenew,  I  first  invited  her,  asking  her  to  fix  her  own  day,  at 
some  considerable  remove.  Next  I  invited  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Morley, 
and  next  Lady  Bernard,  who  went  out  very  little.  Then  1 
invited  Mr.  Blackstone,  and  last  of  all  Roger — though  I  was 
almost  as  much  interested  in  his  meeting  Miss  Clare  as  in  any¬ 
thing  else  connected  with  the  gathering.  For  he  had  been 
absent  from  London  for  some  time  on  a  visit  to  an  artist  friend 
at  the  Hague,  and  had  never  seen  Miss  Clare  since  the  evening 
on  which  he  and  I  quarrelled — or  rather,  to  be  honest,  I 
quarrelled  with  him.  All  accepted,  and  I  looked  forward  to  the 
day  with  some  triumph. 

I  had  better  calm  the  dread  of  my  wifely  reader  by  at  once 
assuring  her  that  I  shall  not  harrow  her  feelings  with  any 
account  of  culinary  blunders.  The  moon  was  in  the  beginning 
of  her  second  quarter,  and  my  cook’s  brain  tolerably  undis¬ 
turbed.  Lady  Bernard  offered  me  her  cook  for  the  occasion, 
but  I  convinced  her  that  my  wisdom  would  be  to  decline  the 
offer,  seeing  such  external  influence  would  probably  tend  to  dis¬ 
integration.  I  went  over  with  her  every  item  of  every  dish  and 
every  sauce  many  times — without  any  resulting  sense  of 
security,  I  confess ;  but  I  had  found  that,  odd  as  it  may 
seem,  she  always  did  better  the  more  she  had  to  do.  I  be¬ 
lieve  that  her  love  of  approbation,  excited  by  the  difficulty 
before  her,  in  its  turn  excited  her  intellect,  which  then  arose 
to  meet  the  necessities  of  the  case. 

Roger  arrived  first,  then  Mr.  Blackstone ;  Lady  Bernard 
brought  Miss  Clare;  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Morley  came  last. 
There  were  several  introductions  to  be  gone  through — a  cere¬ 
mony  in  which  Percivale,  being  awkward,  would  give  me  no 
assistance ;  whence  I  failed  to  observe  how  the  presence  of 
Miss  Clare  affected  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Morley;  but  my  husband  told 
me  that  Judy  turned  red,  and  that  Mr.  Morley  bowed  to  her 
with  studied  politeness.  I  took  care  that  Mr.  Blackstone 
should  take  her  down  to  dinner,  which  was  served  in  the  study 
as  before. 

The  conversation  was  broken  and  desultory  at  first,  as  is 


158 


The  Vicar's  Daughter . 

generally  the  case  at  a  dinner-party — and  perhaps  ought  to  be ; 
but  one  after  another  began  to  listen  to  what  was  passing  be¬ 
tween  Lady  Bernard  and  my  husband  at  the  foot  of  the  table, 
until  by  degrees  every  one  became  interested  and  took  a  greater 
or  less  part  in  the  discussion. 

“  Then  you  do  believe,”  my  husband  was  saying,  “  in  the 
importance  of  what  some  of  the  Devonshire  people  call 
] lavage  ?  ” 

“  Allow  me  to  ask  what  they  mean  by  the  word,”  Lady  Ber¬ 
nard  returned. 

“  Birth,  descent — the  people  you  come  of,”  he  answered. 

“  Of  course  I  believe  that  descent  involves  very  important 
considerations.” 

“  No  one,”  interposed  Mr.  Morley,  “can  have  a  better  right 
than  your  ladyship  to  believe  that.” 

“  One  cannot  have  a  better  right  than  another  to  believe  a 
fact,  Mr.  Morley,”  she  answered  with  a  smile.  “  It  is  but  a  fact 
that  you  start  better  or  worse  according  to  the  position  of  your 
starting-point.” 

“  Undeniably,”  said  Mr.  Morley.  “  And  for  all  that  is  feared 
from  the  growth  of  levelling  notions  in  this  country,  it  will  be 
many  generations  before  a  profound  respect  for  birth  is  eradi¬ 
cated  from  the  feelings  of  the  English  people.” 

He  drew  in  his  chin  with  a  jerk,  and  devoted  himself  again 
to  his  plate,  with  the  air  of  a  “  Dixi.”  He  was  not  per¬ 
mitted  to  eat  in  peace  however. 

“  If  you  allow,”  said  Mr.  Blackstone,  “  that  the  feeling  can 
wear  out,  and  is  wearing  out,  it  matters  little  how  long  it 
may  take  to  prove  itself  of  a  false,  because  corruptible  nature. 
No  growth  of  notions  will  blot  love,  honesty,  kindness,  out  of 
the  human  heart.” 

“Then,”  said  Lady  Bernard  archly,  “am  I  to  understand, 
Mr.  Blackstone,  that  you  don’t  believe  it  of  the  least  importance 
to  come  of  decent  people  ?  ” 

“Your  ladyship  puts  it  well,”  said  Mr.  Morley,  laughing 
mildly,  “and  with  authority.  The  longer  the  descent — ” 


159 


My  Second  Dinner-Party . 

“The  more  doubtful/’  interrupted  Lady  Bernard,  laughing. 
“  One  can  hardly  have  come  of  decent  people  all  through,  you 
know.  Let  us  only  hope,  without  inquiring  too  closely,  that 
their  number  preponderates  in  our  own  individual  cases.” 

Mr.  Moiley  stared  for  a  moment,  and  then  tried  to  laugh, 
but  unable  to  determine  whereabout  he  was  in  respect  of  the 
question,  betook  himself  to  his  glass  of  sherry. 

Mr.  Blackstone  considered  it  the  best  policy  in  general  not  to 
explain  any  remark  he  had  made,  but  to  say  the  right  thing 
better  next  time  instead.  I  suppose  he  believed,  with  another 
friend  of  mine,  that  “  when  explanations  become  necessary,  they 
become  impossible,”  a  paradox  well  worth  the  consideration  of 
those  who  write  letters  to  newspapers.  But  Lady  Bernard 
understood  him  well  enough,  and  was  only  unwinding  the  clue 
of  her  idea. 

“  On  the  contrary,  it  must  be  a  most  serious  fact,”  he  re¬ 
joined,  “  to  any  one  who  like  myself  believes  that  the  sins  of 
the  fathers  are  visited  on  the  children.” 

“  Mr.  Blackstone,”  objected  Roger,  “I  can’t  imagine  you 
believing  such  a  manifest  injustice.” 

“  It  has  been  believed  in  all  ages  by  the  best  of  people,”  he 
returned. 

“  To  whom  possibly  the  injustice  of  it  never  suggested  itself. 
For  my  part,  I  must  either  disbelieve  that  or  disbelieve  in  a 
God.” 

“  But,  my  dear  fellow,  don’t  you  see  it  is  a  fact?  Don’t  you 
see  children  born  with  the  sins  of  their  parents  nestling  in 
their  very  bodies?  You  see  on  which  horn  of  your  own 
dilemma  you  would  impale  yourself.” 

“  Wouldn’t  you  rather  not  believe  in  a  God  than  believe  in 
an  unjust  one  ?  ” 

“An  unjust  god,”  said  Mr.  Blackstone,  with  the  honest 
evasion  of  one  who  will  not  answer  an  awful  question  hastily, 
must  be  a  false  god,  that  is  no  God.  Therefore  I  presume 
there  is  some  higher  truth  involved  in  every  fact  that  appears 
unjust,  the  perception  of  which  would  nullify  the  appearance.” 


*  DO  The  Vicar  s  Daughter ; 

a  I  see  none  in  the  present  case,”  said  Roger. 

“  I  will  go  farther  than  assert  the  mere  opposite,”  returned 
Mr.  Blackstone.  “  I  will  assert  that  it  is  an  honour  tp  us  to 
have  the  sins  of  our  fathers  laid  upon  us.  For  thus  it  is  given 
into  our  power  to  put  a  stop  to  them,  so  that  they  shall 
descend  no  further.  If  I  thought  my  father  had  committed  any 
sins  for  which  I  might  suffer,  I  should  be  unspeakably  glad  to 
suffer  for  them,  and  so  have  the  privilege  of  taking  a  share  in 
his  burden,  and  some  of  the  weight  of  it  off  his  mind.  You  see 
the  whole  idea  is  that  of  a  family,  in  which  we  are  so  grandly 
bound  together,  that  we  must  suffer  with  and  for  each  other. 
Destroy  this  consequence,  and  you  destroy  the  lovely  idea  itself, 
with  all  its  thousandfold  results  of  loveliness.” 

“  You  anticipate  what  I  was  going  to  say,  Mr.  Blackstone,” 
said  Lady  Bernard.  “  I  would  differ  from  you  only  in  one 
thing.  The  chain  of  descent  is  linked  after  such  a  complicated 
pattern,  that  the  non-conducting  condition  of  one  link,  or  of 
many  links  even,  cannot  break  the  transmission  of  qualities.  I 
may  inherit  from  my  great-great-grandfather  or  mother,  or 
some  one  ever  so  much  farther  back.  That  which  was  active 
wrong  in  some  one  or  other  of  my  ancestors,  may  appear  in  me 
as  an  impulse  to  that  same  wrong,  which  of  course  I  have  to 
overcome  ;  and  if  I  succeed,  then  it  is  so  far  checked.  But  it 
may  have  passed,  or  may  yet  pass  to  others  of  his  descendants, 
who  have,  or  will  have  to  do  the  same — for  who  knows  how 
many  generations  to  come  — before  it  shall  cease.  Married 
people,  you  see,  Mrs.  Percivale,  have  an  awful  responsibility 
in  regard  of  the  future  of  the  world.  You  cannot  tell  to  how 
many  millions  you  may  transmit  your  failures  or  your  vic¬ 
tories.” 

“  If  I  understand  you  right,  Lady  Bernard,”  said  Roger,  “  it 
is  the  personal  character  of  your  ancestors,  and  not  their  social 
position,  you  regard  as  of  importance.” 

“  It  was  of  their  personal  character  alone  I  was  thinking.  But 
of  course  I  do  not  pretend  to  believe  that  there  are  not  many 
valuable  gifts  more  likely  to  show  themselves  in  what  is  called 


My  Second  Dinner-Party,  i6i 

a  long  descent,  for  doubtless  a  continuity  of  education  does 
much  to  develope  the  race.” 

“  But  if  it  is  personal  character  you  chiefly  regard,  we  may 
say  we  are  all  equally  far  descended,”  I  remarked ;  “  for  we 
have  each  had  about  the  same  number  of  ancestors  with  a 
character  of  some  sort  or  other,  whose  faults  and  virtues  have 
to  do  with  ours,  and  for  both  of  which  we  are,  according  to 
Mr.  Blackstone,  in  a  most  real  and  important  sense  account¬ 
able.” 

“  Certainly,”  returned  Lady  Bernard  ;  11  and  it  is  impossible 
to  say  in  whose  descent  the  good,  or  the  bad,  may  predominate. 
I  cannot  tell,  for  instance,  how  much  of  the  property  I  inherit 
has  been  honestly  come  by,  or  is  the  spoil  of  rapacity  and 
injustice.” 

“  You  are  doing  the  best  you  can  to  atone  for  such  a  possible 
fact,  then,  by  its  redistribution,”  said  my  husband. 

“  I  confess,”  she  answered,  “  the  doubt  has  had  some  share  in 
determining  my  feeling  with  regard  to  the  management  of  my 
property.  I  have  no  right  to  throw  up  my  stewardship,  for 
that  was  none  of  my  seeking,  and  I  do  not  know  any  one  who 
has  a  better  claim  to  it ;  but  I  count  it  only  a  stewardship.  I 
am  not  at  liberty  to  throw  my  orchard  open,  for  that  would 
result  not  only  in  its  destruction,  but  in  a  renewal  of  the  fight  of 
centuries  ago  for  its  possession ;  but  I  will  try  to  distribute  my 
apples  properly.  That  is,  I  have  not  the  same  right  to  give 
away  foolishly  that  I  have  to  keep  wisely.” 

“  Then,”  resumed  Roger,  who  had  evidently  been  pondering 
what  Lady  Bernard  had  previously  said,  “  you  would  consider 
what  is  called  kleptomania  as  the  impulse  to  steal  transmitted 
by  a  thief-ancestor  ?  ” 

“  Nothing  seems  to  me  more  likely.  I  know  a  nobleman 
whose  servant  has  to  search  his  pockets  for  spoons  or  forks 
every  night  as  soon  as  he  is  in  bed.” 

“  I  should  find  it  very  hard  to  define  the  difference  between 
that  and  stealing,”  said  Miss  Clare,  now  first  taking  a  part  in 
the  conversation.  “  I  have  sometimes  wondered  whether 


M 


1 62  The  Vicar  s  Daughter. 

kleptomania  was  not  merely  the  fashionable  name  for  steal¬ 
ing-” 

“The  distinction  is  a  difficult  one,  and  no  doubt  the  word  is 
occasionally  misapplied.  But  I  think  there  is  a  difference.  The 
nobleman  to  whom  I  referred,  makes  no  objection  to  being 
thus  deprived  of  his  booty,  which,  for  one  thing,  appears  to  show 
that  the  temptation  is  intermittent,  and  partakes  at  least  of  the 
character  of  a  disease.” 

“  But  are  there  not  diseases  which  are  only  so  much  the  worse 
diseases  that  they  are  not  intermittent?  ”  said  Miss  Clare.  “  Is 
it  not  hard  that  the  privileges  of  kleptomania  should  be  confined 
to  the  rich?  You  never  hear  the  word  applied  to  a  poor  child, 
even  if  his  father  was,  in  habit  and  repute,  a  thief.  Surely  when 
hunger  and  cold  aggravate  the  attacks  of  inherited  temptation, 
they  cannot  at  the  same  time  aggravate  the  culpability  of  yield¬ 
ing  to  them  ?  ” 

“  On  the  contrary,”  said  Roger,  “  one  would  naturally  sup¬ 
pose  they  added  immeasurable  excuse.” 

“  Only,”  said  Mr.  Blackstone,  “  there  comes  in  our  ignorance 
and  consequent  inability  to  judge.  The  very  fact  of  the 
presence  of  motives  of  a  most  powerful  kind  renders  it  impos¬ 
sible  to  be  certain  of  the  presence  of  the  disease;  whereas  other 
motives  being  apparently  absent,  we  presume  disease  as  the 
readiest  way  of  accounting  for  the  propensity.  I  do  not  there¬ 
fore  think  it  is  the  only  way.  I  believe  there  are  cases  in  which 
it  comes  of  pure  greed,  and  is  of  the  same  kind  as  any  other 
injustice  the  capability  of  exercising  which  is  more  generally  dis¬ 
tributed.  Why  should  a  thief  be  unknown  in  a  class,  a  propor¬ 
tion  of  the  members  of  which  is  capable  of  wrong,  chicanery, 
oppression,  indeed  any  form  of  absolute  selfishness  ?  ” 

“At  all  events,”  said  Lady  Bernard,  “so  long  as  we  do  our 
best  to  help  them  to  grow  better,  we  cannot  make  too  much 
allowance  for  such  as  have  not  only  been  born  with  evil  im¬ 
pulses,  but  have  had  every  animal  necessity  to  urge  them  in  the 
same  direction ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  they  have  not  had 
one  of  those  restraining  influences  which  a  good  home  and 


My  Second  Dinner-Party .  163 

education  would  have  afforded.  Such  must,  so  far  as  develop¬ 
ment  goes,  be  but  a  little  above  the  beasts. ” 

“  You  open  a  very  difficult  question,”  said  Mr.  Morley  : 
“  what  are  we  to  do  with  them  ?  Supposing  they  are  wild  beasts, 
we  can’t  shoot  them,  though  that  would,  no  doubt,  be  the 
readiest  way  to  put  an  end  to  the  breed.” 

“  Even  that  would  not  suffice,”  said  Lady  Bernard.  “  There 
would  always  be  a  deposit  from  the  higher  classes  sufficient  to 
keep  up  the  breed.  But,  Mr.  Morley,  I  did  not  say  wild  beasts; 
I  only  said  beasts.  There  is  a  great  difference  between  a  tiger 
and  a  sheep-dog.” 

“  There  is  nearly  as  much  between  a  Seven-Dials-rough  and 
a  sheep-dog.” 

“In  moral  attainment,  I  grant  you,”  said  Mr.  Blackstone; 
“  but  in  moral  capacity,  no.  Besides,  you  must  remember,  both 
what  a  descent  the  sheep-dog  has,  and  what  pains  have  been 
taken  with  his  individual  education,  as  well  as  that  of  his 
ancestors.” 

“  Granted  all  that,”  said  Mr.  Morley,  “  there  the  fact  remains. 
For  my  part,  I  confess  I  don’t  see  what  is  to  be  done.  The 
class  to  which  you  refer  goes  on  increasing.  There’s  this 
garrotting  now.  I  spent  a  winter  at  Algiers  lately,  and  found 
even  the  suburbs  of  that  city  immeasurably  safer  than  any  part 
of  London  is  now,  to  judge  from  the  police-reports.  Yet  I  am 
accused  of  inhumanity  and  selfishness  if  I  decline  to  write  a 
cheque  for  every  shabby  fellow  who  calls  upon  me  pretending 
to  be  a  clergyman,  and  to  represent  this  or  that  charity  in  the 
East-end !  ” 

“  Things  are  bad  enough  in  the  West-end,  within  a  few 
hundred  yards  of  Portland  Place,  for  instance,”  murmured 
Miss  Clare. 

“  It  seems  to  me  highly  unreasonable,”  Mr.  Morley  went  on 
“  Why  should  I  spend  my  money  to  perpetuate  such  a  con¬ 
dition  of  things  ?  ” 

“That  wrould  in  all  likelihood  be  the  tendency  of  your 
subscription,”  said  Mr.  Blackstone. 

M  2 


164 


The  Vicar's  Daughter . 


“  Then  why  should  I  ?  ”  repeated  Mr.  Morley  with  a  smile 
of  triumph. 

“  But,”  said  Miss  Clare,  in  an  apologetic  tone,  “it  seems  to 
me  you  make  a  mistake  in  regarding  the  poor  as  if  their  poverty 
were  the  only  distinction  by  which  they  could  be  classified. 
The  poor  are  not  all  thieves  and  garrotters,  nor  even  all  un¬ 
thankful  and  unholy.  There  are  just  as  strong,  and  as  delicate 
distinctions  too,  in  that  stratum  of  social  existence  as  in  the 
upper  strata.  I  should  imagine  Mr.  Morley  knows  a  few,  be¬ 
longing  to  the  same  social  grade  with  himself,  with  whom 
however  he  would  be  sorry  to  be  on  any  terms  of  intimacy.” 

“Not a  few,”  responded  Mr.  Morley,  with  a  righteous  frown. 

“  Then  I,  who  know  the  poor  as  well  at  least  as  you  can 
know  the  rich,  having  lived  amongst  them  almost  from  childhood, 
assert  that  I  am  acquainted  with  not  a  few  who,  in  all  the 
essentials  of  human  life  and  character,  would  be  an  honour  to 
any  circle.” 

“  I  should  be  sorry  to  seem  to  imply  that  there  may  not  be 
very  worthy  people  amongst  them,  Miss  Clare ;  but  it  is  not 
such  who  draw  our  attention  to  the  class.” 

“Not  such  who  force  themselves  upon  your  attention  cer¬ 
tainly,”  said  Miss  Clare  ;  “but  the  existence  of  such  may  be 
an  additional  reason  for  bestowing  some  attention  on  the  class 
to  which  they  belong.  Is  there  not  such  a  mighty  fact  as  the 
body  of  Christ  ?  Is  there  no  connexion  between  the  head  and 
the  feet  ?  ” 

“  I  had  not  the  slightest  purpose  of  disputing  the  matter  with 
you,  Miss  Clare,”  said  Mr.  Morley  — I  thought  rudely,  for  who 
would  use  the  word  disputing  at  a  dinner-table  ? — “  On  the 
contrary,  being  a  practical  man,  I  want  to  know  what  is  to  be 
done.  It  is  doubtless  a  great  misfortune  to  the  community 
that  there  should  be  such  sinks  in  our  cities,  but  who  is  to 
blame  for  it  ? — that  is  the  question.” 

“  Every  man  who  says  :  Am  I  my  brother’s  keeper?  Why, 
just  consider,  Mr.  Morley  :  suppose  in  a  family  there  were  one 
less  gifted  than  the  others,  and  that  in  consequence  they  all 


My  Second  Dinner-Party.  165 

withdrew  from  him,  and  took  no  interest  in  his  affairs  :  what 
would  become  of  him  ?  Must  he  not  sink  ?  ” 

“  Difference  of  rank  is  a  divine  appointment— you  must  allow 
that.  If  there  were  not  a  variety  of  grades,  the  social  machine 
would  soon  come  to  a  stand-still.” 

“  A  strong  argument  for  taking  care  of  the  smallest  wheel, 
for  all  the  parts  are  interdependent.  That  there  should  be 
different  classes  is  undoubtedly  a  divine  intention,  and  not  to 
be  turned  aside.  But  suppose  the  less-gifted  boy  is  fit  for 
some  manual  labour ;  suppose  he  takes  to  carpentering,  and 
works  well,  and  keeps  the  house  tidy,  and  everything  in  good 
repair,  while  his  brothers  pursue  their  studies  and  prepare  for 
professions  beyond  his  reach:  is  the  inferior  boy  degraded  by 
doing  the  best  he  can  ?  Is  there  any  reason  in  the  nature  of 
things  why  he  should  sink  ?  But  he  will  most  likely  sink, 
sooner  or  later,  if  his  brothers  take  no  interest  in  his  work,  and 
treat  him  as  a  being  of  nature  inferior  to  their  own.” 

“  I  beg  your  pardon,”  said  Mr.  Morley,  “  but  is  he  not  on 
the  very  supposition  inferior  to  them?” 

“  Intellectually,  yes  ;  morally,  no  ;  for  he  is  doing  his  work, 
possibly  better  than  they,  and  therefore  taking  a  higher  place 
in  the  eternal  scale.  But  granting  all  kinds  of  inferiority,  his 
nature  remains  the  same  with  their  own,  and  the  question  is 
whether  they  treat  him  as  one  to  be  helped  up  or  one  to  be 
kept  down  ;  as  one  unworthy  of  sympathy  or  one  to  be  honoured 
for  filling  his  part :  in  a  word,  as  one  belonging  to  them  or  one 
whom  they  put  up  with  only  because  his  work  is  necessary  to 
them.” 

“  What  do  you  mean  by  being  ‘helped  up’?”  asked  Mr. 
Morley. 

“  I  do  not  mean  helped  out  of  his  trade  ;  but  helped  to  make 
the  best  of  it  and  of  the  intellect  that  finds  its  development 
in  that  way.” 

“  Very  good.  But  yet  I  don’t  see  how  you  apply  your 
supposition.” 

“  For  an  instance  of  application  then : — how  many  re- 


1 66  The  Vicar's  Daughter , 

spectable  people  know  or  care  a  jot  about  their  servants, 
except  as  creatures  necessary  to  their  comfort  ? ” 

“Well,  Miss  Clare,”  said  Judy,  addressing  her  for  the  first 
time,  “  if  you  had  had  the  half  to  do  with  servants  I  have  had, 
)OU  would  alter  your  opinion  of  them.” 

“I  have  expressed  no  opinion,”  returned  Miss  Clare.  “  I 
have  only  said  that  masters  and  mistresses  know  and  care  next 
to  nothing  about  them.” 

“  They  are  a  very  ungrateful  class,  do  what  you  will  for  them.” 

“I  am  afraid  they  are  at  present  growing  more  and  more 
corrupt  as  a  class,”  rejoined  Miss  Clare;  “  but  gratitude  is  a 
high  virtue,  therefore  in  any  case  I  don’t  see  how  you  could 
look  for  much  of  it  from  the  common  sort  of  them.  And  while 
some  mistresses  do  not  get  so  much  of  it  as  they  deserve,  I 
fear  most  mistresses  expect  far  more  of  it  than  they  have  any 
right  to.” 

“You  can't  get  them  to  speak  the  truth.’* 

“  That  I  am  afraid  is  a  fact.” 

“  I  have  never  known  one  on  whose  word  I  could  depend,” 
ed  Judy. 

“  My  father  says  he  has  known  one,”  I  interjected. 

“  A  sad  confirmation  of  Mrs.  Morley,”  said  Miss  Clare. 
“  But  for  my  part  I  know  very  few  persons  in  any  rank  on 
whose  representation  of  things  I  could  absolutely  depend. 
Truth  is  the  highest  virtue,  and  seldom  grows  wild.  It  is  diffi¬ 
cult  to  speak  the  truth,  and  those  who  have  tried  it  longest  best 
know  how  difficult  it  is.  Servants  need  to  be  taught  that  as 
well  as  everybody  else.” 

“  There  is  nothing  they  resent  so  much  as  being  taught,” 
said  Judy. 

“  Perhaps ;  they  are  very  far  from  docile :  and  I  believe  it 
is  of  little  use  to  attempt  giving  them  direct  lessons.” 

“  How  then  are  you  to  teach  them?  ” 

“  By  making  it  very  plain  to  them,  but  without  calling  their 
attention  to  it,  that  you  speak  the  truth.  In  the  course  of  a  few 
years  they  may  come  to  tell  a  lie  or  two  the  less  for  that.” 


My  Second  Dinner-Party.  167 

“  No  a  very  hopeful  prospect/’  said  Judy. 

“Not  a  very  rapid  improvement/’  said  her  husband. 

“  I  look  for  no  rapid  improvement  so  early  in  a  history  as 
the  supposition  implies/’  said  Miss  Clare. 

“  But  would  you  not  tell  them  how  wicked  it  is  ?  ”  I  asked. 

“  They  know  already  that  it  is  wicked  to  tell  lies  ;  but  they 
do  not  feel  that  they  are  wicked  in  making  the  assertions  they 
do.  The  less  said  about  the  abstract  truth,  and  the  more  shown 
of  practical  truth,  the  better  for  those  whom  any  one  would 
teach  to  forsake  lying.  So  at  least  it  appears  to  me.  I  de¬ 
spair  of  teaching  others  except  by  learning  myself.” 

“  If  you  do  no  more  than  that  you  will  hardly  produce  an 
appreciable  effect  in  a  lifetime,”  said  Mr.  Morley. 

“  Why  should  it  be  appreciated  ?  ”  rejoined  Miss  Clare. 

“  I  should  have  said  on  the  contrary,”  interposed  Mr.  Black- 
stone,  addressing  Mr.  Morley,  “ — if  you  do  less — for  more  you 
cannot  do — you  will  produce  no  effect  whatever.” 

“  We  have  no  right  to  make  it  a  condition  of  our  obedience 
that  we  shall  see  its  reflex  in  the  obedience  of  others,”  said 
Miss  Clare.  “  We  have  to  pull  out  the  beam,  not  the  mote.” 

“Are  you  not  then  to  pull  the  mote  out  of  your  brother’s 
eye  ?  ”  said  J  udy. 

“  In  no  case,  and  on  no  pretence,  until  you  have  pulled  the 
beam  out  of  your  own  eye,”  said  Mr.  Blackstone — “  which  I 
fancy  will  make  the  duty  of  finding  fault  with  one’s  neighbour  a 
rare  one,  for  who  will  venture  to  say  he  has  qualified  himself 
for  the  task  ?  ” 

It  was  no  wonder  that  a  silence  followed  upon  this ;  for 
the  talk  had  got  to  be  very  serious  for  a  dinner-table.  Lady 
Bernard  was  the  first  to  speak.  It  was  easier  to  take  up  the 
dropped  thread  of  the  conversation  than  to  begin  a  new  reel. 

“  It  cannot  be  denied/’  she  said,  “whoever  may  be  to  blame 
for  it,  that  the  separation  between  the  rich  and  the  poor  has 
either  been  greatly  widened  of  late,  or,  which  involves  the 
same  practical  necessity,  we  have  become  more  aware  of 
the  breadth  and  depth  of  a  gulf  which,  however  it  may  dis- 


1 68  The  Vicar’s  Daughter. 

tinguish  their  circumstances,  ought  not  to  divide  them  from 
each  other.  Certainly  the  rich  withdraw  themselves  from  the 
poor.  Instead,  for  instance,  of  helping  them  to  bear  their 
burdens,  they  leave  the  still  struggling  poor  of  whole  parishes 
to  sink  into  hopeless  want,  under  the  weight  of  those  who  have 
already  sunk  beyond  recovery.  I  am  not  sure  that  to  shoot 
them  would  not  involve  less  injustice.  At  all  events  he  that 
hates  his  brother  is  a  murderer.” 

“  But  there  is  no  question  of  hating  here,”  objected  Mr. 
Morley. 

“  I  am  not  certain  that  absolute  indifference  to  one’s  neigh¬ 
bour  is  not  as  bad.  It  came  pretty  nearly  to  the  same  thing  in 
the  case  of  the  priest  and  the  Levite,  who  passed  by  on  the 
other  side,”  said  Mr.  Blackstone. 

“  Still,”  said  Mr.  Morley,  in  all  the  self-importance  of  one 
who  prided  himself  on  the  practical,  “  I  do  not  see  that  Miss 
Clare  has  proposed  any  remedy  for  the  state  of  things  con¬ 
cerning  the  evil  of  which  we  are  all  agreed.  What  is  to  be 
done  ?  What  can  1  do  now  ?  Come,  Miss  Clare.” 

Miss  Clare  was  silent. 

“  Marion,  my  child,”  said  Lady  Bernard,  turning  to  her, 
“will  you  answer  Mr.  Morley  ?  ” 

“  Not  certainly  as  to  what  he  can  do;  that  question  I  dare 
not  undertake  to  answer.  I  can  only  speak  of  what  principles 
I  may  seem  to  have  discovered.  But  until  a  man  begins  to 
behave  to  those  with  whom  he  comes  into  personal  contact  as 
partakers  of  the  same  nature,  to  recognize,  for  instance,  between 
himself  and  his  tradespeople  a  bond  superior  to  that  of  supply 
and  demand,  I  cannot  imagine  how  he  is  to  do  anything  to¬ 
wards  the  drawing  together  of  the  edges  of  the  gaping  wound 
in  the  social  body.” 

“  But,”  persisted  Mr.  Morley,  who  I  began  to  think  showed 
some  real  desire  to  come  at  a  practical  conclusion,  “  suppose  a 
man  finds  himself  incapable  of  that  sort  of  thing — for  it  seems 
to  me  to  want  some  rare  qualification  or  other  to  be  able  to 
converse  with  an  uneducated  person — ” 


169 


My  Second  Dinner-Party. 

“  There  are  many  such,  especially  amongst  those  who  follow 
handicrafts,”  interposed  Mr.  Blackstone,  “who  think  a  great 
deal  more  than  most  of  the  so-called  educated.  There  is  a  truef 
education  to  be  got  in  the  pursuit  of  a  handicraft,  than  in  the 
life  of  a  mere  scholar.  But  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Morley.” 

“Suppose,”  resumed  Mr.  Morley,  accepting  the  apology 
without  disclaimer, — “  Suppose  I  find  I  can  do  nothing  of  that 
sort,  is  there  nothing  of  any  sort  I  can  do?  ” 

“  Nothing  of  the  best  sort,  I  firmly  believe,”  answered  Miss 
Clare,  “  for  the  genuine  recbgnition  of  the  human  relationship 
can  alone  give  value  to  whatever  else  you  may  do,  and  indeed 
can  alone  guide  you  to  what  ought  to  be  done.  I  had  a  rather 
painful  illustration  of  this  the  other  day.  A  gentleman  of 
wealth  and  position  offered  me  the  use  of  his  grounds  for  some 
of  my  poor  friends  whom  I  wanted  to  take  out  for  a  half-holiday. 
In  the  neighbourhood  of  London,  that  is  a  great  boon.  But, 
unfortunately,  whether  from  his  mistake  or  mine,  I  was  left  with 
the  impression  that  he  would  provide  some  little  entertainment 
for  them  ;  I  am  certain  that  at  least  milk  was  mentioned.  It  was 
a  lovely  day ;  everything  looked  beautiful ;  and  although  they 
were  in  no  great  spirits,  poor  things,  no  doubt  the  shade  and 
the  grass  and  the  green  trees  wrought  some  good  in  them. 
Unhappily,  two  of  the  men  had  got  drunk  on  the  way,  and, 
fearful  of  giving  offence,  I  had  to  take  them  back  to  the  station 
—  for  their  poor  helpless  Avives  could  only  cry — and  send  them 
home  by  train.  I  should  have  done  better  to  risk  the  offence 
and  take  them  into  the  grounds,  where  they  might  soon  have 
slept  it  off  under  a  tree.  I  had  some  distance  to  go,  and  some 
difficulty  in  getting  them  along,  and  when  I  got  back  I  found 
things  in  an  unhappy  condition,  for  nothing  had  been  given 
them  to  eat  or  drink — indeed,  .no  attention  had  been  paid  them 
whatever.  There  was  company  at  dinner  in  the  house,  and  I 
could  not  find  any  one  with  authority.  I  hurried  into  the 
neighbouring  village,  and  bought  the  contents  of  two  bakers’ 
shops,  with  which  I  returned  in  time  to  give  each  a  piece  of 
bread  before  the  company  came  out  to  look  at  them.  A  gaily 


I/O  The  Vicars  Daughter. 

dressed  group,  they  stood  by  themselves  languidly  regarding  the 
equally  languid  but  rather  indignant  groups  of  ill-clad  and  hungry 
men  and  women  upon  the  lawn.  They  made  no  attempt  to 
mingle  with  them,  or  arrive  at  a  notion  of  what  was  moving  in 
any  of  their  minds.  The  nearest  approach  to  communion  I 
saw  was  a  poke  or  two  given  to  a  child  with  the  point  of  a 
parasol.  Were  my  poor  friends  likely  to  return  to  their  dingy 
homes  with  any  great  feeling  of  regard  for  the  givers  of  such 
cold  welcome  ?  ” 

“  But  that  was  an  exceptional  case,”  said  Mr.  Morley. 

“  Chiefly  in  this,”  returned  Miss  Clare,  “  that  it  was  a  case 
at  all  —  that  they  were  thus  presented  with  a  little  more  room 
on  the  face  of  the  earth  for  a  few  hours.” 

“  But  you  think  the  fresh  air  may  have  done  them  good.” 

“  Yes ;  but  we  were  speaking,  I  thought,  of  what  might 
serve  towards  the  filling  up  of  the  gulf  between  the  classes.” 

“  Well,  will  not  all  kindness  shown  to  the  poor  by  persons  in 
a  superior  station,  tend  in  that  direction  ?  ” 

“  I  maintain  that  you  can  do  nothing  for  them  in  the  way  of 
kindness  that  shall  not  result  in  more  harm  than  good,  except 
you  do  it  from  and  with  genuine  charity  of  soul  — with  some  of 
that  love,  in  short,  which  is  the  heart  of  religion.  Except  what 
is  done  for  them  is  so  done  as  to  draw  out  their  trust  and  affec¬ 
tion,  and  so  raise  them  consciously  in  the  human  scale,  it  can 
only  tend  either  to  hurt  their  feelings  and  generate  indignation, 
or  to  encourage  fawning  and  beggary.  But — ” 

“  I  am  entirely  of  your  mind,”  said  Mr.  Blackstone.  “  But 
do  go  on.” 

“  I  was  going  to  add,”  said  Miss  Clare,  “  that  while  no  other 
charity  than  this  can  touch  the  sore,  a  good  deal  might  yet  be 
effected  by  bare  justice.  It  seems  to  me  high  time  that  we 
dropped  talking  about  charity,  and  took  up  the  cry  of  justice. 
There  now  is  a  ground  on  which  a  man  of  your  influence,  Mr. 
Morley,  might  do  much.” 

“  I  don’t  know  what  you  mean,  Miss  Clare.  So  long  as  I 


My  Second  Dinner-Pa,  y*  17 1 

pay  the  market  value  for  the  labour  I  employ,  I  do  not  see 
how  more  can  be  demanded  of  me — as  a  right,  that  is.’7 

“  We  will  not  enter  on  that  question,  Marion,  if  you  please,” 
said  Lady  Bernard. 

Miss  Clare  nodded  and  went  on. 

“  Is  it  just  in  the  nation,”  she  said,  “  to  abandon  those  who 
can  do  nothing  to  help  themselves,  to  be  preyed  upon  by  bad 
landlords,  railway-companies,  and  dishonest  tradespeople  with 
their  false  weights,  balances,  and  measures,  and  adulterations  to 
boot— from  all  of  whom  their  more  wealthy  brethren  are  com¬ 
paratively  safe?  Does  not  a  nation  exist  for  the  protection  of 
its  parts  ?  Have  these  no  claims  on  the  nation  ?  Would  you 
call  it  just  in  a  family  to  abandon  its  less  gifted  to  any  moral  or 
physical  spoiler  who  might  be  bred  within  it?  To  say  a  citizen 
must  take  care  of  himself  maybe  just  where  he  can  take  care  of 
himself,  but  cannot  be  just  where  that  is  impossible.  A  thousand 
causes,  originating  mainly  in  the  neglect  of  their  neighbours, 
have  combined  to  sink  the  poor  into  a  state  of  moral  paralysis  : 
are  we  to  say  the  paralyzed  may  be  run  over  in  our  streets  with 
impunity?  Must  they  take  care  of  themselves  ?  Have  we  not 
to  awake  them  to  the  very  sense  that  life  is  worth  caring  for? 
I  cannot  but  feel  that  the  bond  between  such  a  neglected 
class  and  any  nation  in  which  it  is  to  be  found,  is  very  little 
stronger  than,  if  indeed  as  strong  as,  that  between  slaves  and 
their  masters.  Who  could  preach  to  them  their  duty  to  the 
nation,  except  on  grounds  which  such  a  nation  acknowledges 
only  with  the  lips  ?  ” 

“  You  have  to  prove,  Miss  Clare,”  said  Mr.  Morley,  in  a 
tone  that  seemed  intended  to  imply  that  he  was  not  in  the  least 
affected  by  mistimed  eloquence,  “  that  the  relation  is  that  of 
a  family.” 

“  I  believe,”  she  returned,  “  that  it  is  closer  than  the  mere 
human  relation  of  the  parts  of  any  family.  But,  at  all  events, 
until  we  are  their  friends  it  is  worse  than  useless  to  pretend  to 
be  such,  and  until  they  feel  that  we  are  their  friends  it  is 


172 


The  Vicar's  Daughter . 

worse  than  useless  to  talk  to  them  about  God  and  religion. 
They  will  none  of  it  from  our  lips.” 

“  Will  they  from  any  lips  ?  Are  they  not  already  too  far 
sunk  towards  the  brutes  to  be  capable  of  receiving  any  such 
rousing  influence?”  suggested  Mr.  Blackstone  with  a  smile, 
evidently  wishing  to  draw  Miss  Clare  out  yet  further. 

“You  turn  me  aside,  Mr.  Blackstone.  I  wanted  to  urge 
Mr.  Morley  to  go  into  parliament  as  spiritual  member  for  the 
poor  of  our  large  towns.  Besides,  I  know  you  don’t  think  as 
your  question  would  imply.  As  far  as  my  experience  guides 
me,  I  am  bound  to  believe  that  there  is  a  spot  of  soil  in  every 
heart  sufficient  for  the  growth  of  a  gospel  seed.  And  I  believe, 
moreover,  that  not  only  is  he  a  fellow-worker  with  God  who 
sows  that  seed,  but  that  he  also  is  one  who  opens  a  way  for 
that  seed  to  enter  the  soil.  If  such  preparation  were  not 
necessary,  the  Saviour  would  have  come  the  moment  Adam  and 
Eve  fell,  and  would  have  required  no  Baptist  to  precede  him.” 

A  good  deal  followed  which  I  would  gladly  record,  enabled 
as  I  now  am  to  assist  my  memory  by  a  more  thorough 
acquaintance  with  the  views  of  Miss  Clare.  But  I  fear  I  have 
already  g  veil  too  much  conversation  at  once. 


The  End  of  the  Evening . 


m 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE  END  OF  THE  EVENING. 

What  specially  delighted  me  during  the  evening  was  the  marked 
attention,  and  the  serious  look  in  the  eyes,  with  which  Roger 
listened.  It  was  not  often  that  he  did  look  serious.  He  pre¬ 
ferred,  if  possible,  to  get  a  joke  out  of  a  thing;  but  when  he 
did  enter  into  an  argument  he  was  always  fair.  Although 
prone  to  take  the  side  of  objection  to  any  religious  remark, 
he  yet  never  said  anything  against  religion  itself.  But  his  prin* 
ciples  and  indeed  his  nature  seemed  as  yet  in  a  state  of  solution — - 
uncrystallized,  as  my  father  would  say.  Mr.  Morley,  on  the 
other  hand,  seemed  an  insoluble  mass,  incapable  of  receiving 
impressions  from  other  minds.  Any  suggestion  of  his  own 
mind  as  to  a  course  of  action,  or  a  mode  of  thinking,  had  a 
good  chance  of  being  without  question  regarded  as  reasonable 
and  right :  he  was  more  than  ordinarily  prejudiced  in  his  own 
favour.  The  day  after  they  thus  met  at  our  house,  Miss  Clare 
had  a  letter  from  him,  in  which  he  took  the  high  hand  with  her, 
rebuking  her  solemnly  for  her  presumption  in  saying,  as  he 
represented  it,  that  no  good  could  be  done  except  after  the 
fashion  she  laid  down,  and  assuring  her  that  she  would  thus 
alienate  the  most  valuable  assistance  from  any  scheme  she 
might  cherish  for  the  amelioration  of  the  condition  of  the  lower 
classes.  It  ended  with  the  offer  of  a  yearly  subscription  of  five 
pounds  to  any  project  of  the  wisdom  of  which  she  would  take 
the  trouble  to  convince  him.  She  replied  thanking  him  both 
for  his  advice  and  his  offer,  but  saying  that,  as  she  had  no 
scheme  on  foot  requiring  such  assistance,  she  could  not  at 
present  accept  the  latter  ;  should,  however,  anything  show  itself 
for  which  that  sort  of  help  was  desirable,  she  would  take  the 
liberty  of  reminding  him  of  it. 

When  the  ladies  rose,  Judy  took  me  aside  and  said, — 


174 


The  Vicar's  Daughter. 

“  What  does  it  all  mean,  Wynnie?  ” 

“Just  what  you  hear,”  I  answered. 

“You  asked  us,  to  have  a  triumph  over  me,  you  naughty 
thing  !  ” 

“  Well — partly — if  I  am  to  be  honest ;  but  far  more  to  make 
you  do  justice  to  Miss  Clare.  You  being  my  cousin,  she  had  a 
right  to  that  at  my  hands.” 

“  Does  Lady  Bernard  know  as  much  about  her  as  she 
seems  ?  ” 

“  She  knows  everything  about  her,  and  visits  her  too  in  her 
very  questionable  abode.  You  see,  Judy,  a  report  may  be  a 
fact,  and  yet  be  untrue.” 

“  I’m  not  going  to  be  lectured  by  a  chit  like  you.  But  I 
should  like  to  have  a  little  talk  with  Miss  Clare.” 

“  I  will  make  you  an  opportunity.” 

I  did  so,  and  could  not  help  overhearing  a  very  pretty 
apology ;  to  which  Miss  Clare  replied,  that  she  feared  she  only 
was  to  blame,  inasmuch  as  she  ought  to  have  explained  the 
peculiarity  of  her  circumstances  before  accepting  the  engagement. 
At  the  time  it  had  not  appeared  to  her  necessary,  she  said ; 
but  now  she  would  make  a  point  of  explaining  before  she 
accepted  any  fresh  duty  of  the  kind,  for  she  saw  it  would  be 
fairer  to  both  parties.  It  was  no  wonder  such  an  answer  should 
entirely  disarm  cousin  Judy,  who  forthwith  begged  she  would, 
if  she  had  no  objection,  resume  her  lessons  with  the  children 
at  the  commencement  of  the  next  quarter. 

“But  I  understand  from  Mrs.  Percivale,”  objected  Miss 
Clare,  “  that  the  office  is  filled  to  your  thorough  satisfaction.” 

“  Yes  ;  the  lady  I  have  is  an  excellent  teacher;  but  the  en¬ 
gagement  was  only  for  a  quarter.” 

“  If  you  have  no  other  reason  for  parting  with  her,  I  could 
not  think  of  stepping  into  her  place.  It  would  be  a  great 
disappointment  to  her,  and  my  want  of  openness  with  you  would 
be  the  cause  of  it.  If  you  should  part  with  her  for  any  other 
reason,  I  should  be  very  glad  to  serve  you  again.” 

Judy  tried  to  argue  with  her,  but  Miss  Clare  was  immovable. 

S  V 


*75 


The  End  of  the  Evening. 

“  Will  you  let  me  come  and  see  you  then  ?”  said  Judy. 

“  With  all  my  heart,”  she  answered.  “  You  had  better  come 
with  Mrs.  Percivale,  though,  for  it  would  not  be  easy  for  you  to 
find  the  place.” 

We  went  up  to  the  drawing-room  to  tea,  passing  through  the 
study,  and  taking  the  gentlemen  with  us.  Miss  Clare  played  to 
us,  and  sang  several  songs — the  last  a  ballad  of  Schiller’s,  The 
Pilgrim ,  setting  forth  the  constant  striving  of  the  soul  after 
something  of  which  it  never  lays  hold.  The  last  verse  of  it  I 
managed  to  remember.  It  was  this  : — 

Thither  ah  !  no  footpath  bendeth  ; 

Ah  !  the  heaven  above,  so  clear3 
Never,  earth  to  touch,  descendeth  ; 

And  the  There  is  never  Here  ! 

“That  is  a  beautiful  song,4md  beautifully  sung,”  said  Mr, 
Blackstone ;  “  but  I  am  a  little  surprised  at  your  choosing  to 
sing  it,  for  you  cannot  call  it  a  Christian  song.” 

“  Don’t  you  find  St.  Paul  saying  something  very  like  it  again 
and  again  ?  ”  Miss  Clare  returned  with  a  smile,  as  if  she  perfectly 
knew  what  he  objected  to.  “  You  find  him  striving,  journeying, 
pressing  on,  reaching  out  to  lay  hold,  but  never  having  attained 
- — ever  conscious  of  failure.” 

“  That  is  true  ;  but  there  is  this  huge  difference — that  St 
Paul  expects  to  attain — is  confident  of  one  day  attaining; 
while  Schiller,  in  that  lyric,  at  least,  seems — I  only  say  seems 
— hopeless  of  any  satisfaction  :  Das  Dort  ist  nicmals  Hier .” 

“  It  may  have  been  only  a  mood,”  said  Miss  Clare.  “  St. 
Paul  had  his  moods  also,  from  which  he  had  to  rouse  himself 
to  fresh  faith  and  hope  and  effort.” 

“  But  St.  Paul  writes  only  in  his  hopeful  moods.  Such 
alone  he  counts  worthy  of  sharing  with  his  fellows.  If  there  is 
no  hope,  why,  upon  any  theory,  take  the  trouble  to  say  so  ? 
It  is  pure  weakness  to  desire  sympathy  in  hopelessness.  Hope 
alone  justifies  as  well  as  excites  either  utterance  or  effort.” 

“  I  admit  all  you  say,  Mr.  Blackstone ;  and  yet  I  think  such 


1 76  The  Vicar  s  Daughter . 

a  poem  invaluable ;  for  is  not  Schiller  therein  the  mouth  cf  the 
whole  creation  groaning  and  travailing  and  inarticulately  crying 
out  for  the  sonship?” 

“  Unconsciously  then.  He  does  not  know  what  he  wants.” 

“ Apparently  not.  Neither  does  the  creation.  Neither  do 
we.  We  do  know  it  is  oneness  with  God  we  want,  but  of  what 
that  means  we  have  only  vague  though  glowing  hints.” 

I  saw  Mr.  Morley  scratch  his  left  ear  like  a  young  calf,  only 
more  impatiently. 

“  But,”  Miss  Clare  went  on,  “  is  it  not  invaluable  as  the  con¬ 
fession  of  one  of  the  noblest  of  spirits  that  he  had  found  neither 
repose  nor  sense  of  attainment  ?  ” 

“  But,”  said  Roger,  “  did  you  ever  know  any  one  of  those 
you  call  Christians  who  professed  to  have  reached  satisfaction ; 
or  if  so,  whose  life  would  justify  you  in  believing  him  ?” 

“  I  have  never  known  a  $itisfied  Christian,  I  confess,” 
answered  Miss  Clare.  “  Indeed,  I  should  take  satisfaction  as 
a  poor  voucher  for  Christianity.  But  I  have  known  several 
contented  Christians.  I  might  in  respect  of  one  or  two  of 
them  use  a  stronger  word — certainly  not  satisfied.  I  believe 
there  is  a  grand,  essential  unsatisfaction — I  do  not  mean  dis¬ 
satisfaction — which  adds  the  delight  of  expectation  to  the  peace 
of  attainment ;  and  that,  I  presume,  is  the  very  consciousness 
of  heaven.  But  where  faith  may  not  have  produced  even  con¬ 
tentment,  it  will  yet  sustain  hope — which,  if  we  may  judge 
lrom  the  ballad,  no  mere  aspiration  can.  We  must  believe  in 
a  living  ideal  before  we  can  have  a  tireless  heart — an  ideal 
which  draws  our  poor  vague  ideal  to  itself — to  till  it  full  and 
make  it  alive.” 

I  should  have  been  amazed  to  hear  Miss  Clare  talk  like  this, 
had  I  not  often  heard  my  father  say  that  aspiration  and 
obedience  were  the  two  mightiest  forces  for  development. 
Her  own  needs  and  her  own  deeds  had  been  her  tutors  \  and 
the  light  by  which  she  had  read  their  lessons  was  the  candle  of 
the  Lord  within  her. 

When  my  husband  would  have  put  her  into  Lady  Bernard’s! 


The  End  of  the  Eva  ling.  177 

carriage  as  they  were  leaving,  she  said  she  should  prefer 
walking  home;  and  as  Lady  Bernard  did  not  press  her  to  the 
contrary,  Percivale  could  not  remonstrate. 

“  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  walk  with  you,  Miss  Clare,”  he  said. 
“  /  must  not  leave  my  duties,  but — ” 

“There’s  not  the  slightest  occasion,”  she  interrupted.  “I 
know  every  yard  of  the  way.  Good-night.” 

The  carriage  drove  off  in  one  direction,  and  Miss  Clare 
tripped  lightly  along  in  the  other.  Percivale  darted  into  the 
house  and  told  Roger,  who  snatched  up  his  hat,  and  bounded 
after  her.  Already  she  was  out  of  sight,  but  he,  following 
light-footed,  overtook  her  in  the  crescent.  It  was  however  only 
after  persistent  entreaty  that  he  prevailed  on  her  to  allow  him 
to  accompany  her. 

“You  do  not  know,  Mr.  Roger,”  she  said  pleasantly,  “what 
you  may  be  exposing  yourself  to,  in  going  with  me.  I  may 
have  to  do  something  you  wouldn’t  like  to  have  a  share  in  ” 

“  I  shall  be  only  too  glad  to  have  the  humblest  share  in 
anything  you  draw  me  into,”  said  Roger. 

As  it  fell  out,  they  had  not  gone  far  before  they  came  upon 
a  little  crowd,  chiefly  of  boys  who  ought  to  have  been  in  bed 
long  before,  gathered  about  a  man  and  woman.  The  man 
was  forcing  his  company  on  a  woman  who  was  evidently 
annoyed  that  she  could  not  get  rid  of  him. 

“  Is  he  your  husband?”  asked  Miss  Clare,  making  her  way 
through  the  crowd. 

“  No,  miss,”  the  woman  answered.  “  I  never  saw  him  afore. 
I’m  only  just  come  in  from  the  country.” 

She  looked  more  angry  than  frightened.  Roger  said  her 
black  eyes  flashed  dangerously,  and  she  felt  about  the  bosom  of 
her  dress— for  a  knife,  he  was  certain. 

“  You  leave  her  alone,”  he  said  to  the  man,  getting  between 
him  and  her. 

“Mind  your  own  business,”  returned  the  man  in  a  voice 
that  showed  he  was  drunk. 

For  a  moment  Roger  was  undecided  what  to  do,  for  he  feared 

N 


178  The  Vicar's  Daughter . 

involving  Miss  Clare  in  a  row,  as  he  called  it.  But  when  the 
fellow,  pushing  suddenly  past  him,  laid  his  hand  on  Miss  Clare 
and  shoved  her  away,  he  gave  him  a  blow  that  sent  him 
staggering  into  the  street;  whereupon,  to  his  astonishment, 
Miss  Clare,  leaving  the  woman,  followed  the  man,  and  as  soon 
as  he  had  recovered  his  equilibrium,  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm 
and  spoke  to  him,  but  in  a  voice  so  low  and  gentle  that  Roger 
who  had  followed  her  could  not  hear  a  word  she  said.  For  a 
moment  or  two  the  man  seemed  to  try  to  listen,  but  his  condition 
was  too  much  for  him,  and  turning  from  her  he  began  again  to 
follow  the  woman  who  was  now  walking  wearily  away.  Roger 
again  interposed. 

“Don’t  strike  him,  Mr.  Roger,”  cried  Miss  Clare;  “he’s 
too  drunk  for  that.  But  keep  him  back  if  you  can,  while  I 
take  the  woman  away.  If  I  see  a  policeman,  I  will  send  him.” 

The  man  heard  her  last  words,  and  they  roused  him  to  fury. 
He  rushed  at  Roger,  who,  implicitly  obedient,  only  dodged  to 
let  him  pass  and  again  confronted  him,  engaging  his  attention 
until  help  arrived.  He  was  however  by  this  time  so  fierce  and 
violent  that  Roger  felt  bound  to  assist  the  policeman. 

As  soon  as  the  man  was  locked  up,  he  went  to  Lime  Court. 
The  moon  was  shining,  and  the  narrow  passage  lay  bright 
beneath  her.  Along  the  street  people  were  going  and  coming, 
though  it  was  past  midnight,  but  the  court  was  very  still.  He 
walked  into  it  as  far  as  the  spot  where  we  had  together  seen 
Miss  Clare.  The  door  at  which  she  had  entered  was  open, 
but  he  knew  nothing  of  the  house  or  its  people,  and  feared  to 
compromise  her  by  making  inquiries.  He  walked  several  times 
up  and  down,  somewhat  anxious,  but  gradually  persuading  him¬ 
self  that  in  all  probability  no  further  annoyance  had  befallen 
her  ;  until  at  last  he  felt  able  to  leave  the  place. 

He  came  back  to  our  house,  where,  finding  his  brother  at 
his  final  pipe  in  the  study,  he  told  him  all  about  their  adven¬ 
ture. 


179 


My  First  Terror , 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

MY  FIRST  TERROR. 

One  of  the  main  discomforts  in  writing  a  book  is,  that  there 
are  so  many  ways  in  which  everything,  as  it  comes  up,  might 
be  told  and  you  can’t  tell  which  is  the  best.  You  believe  there 
must  be  a  best  way,  but  you  might  spend  your  life  in  trying  to 
satisfy  yourself  which  was  that  best  way,  and,  when  you  came 
to  the  close  of  it,  find  you  had  done  nothing—  hadn’t  even 
found  out  the  way.  I  have  always  to  remind  myself  that  some¬ 
thing,  even  if  it  be  far  from  the  best  thing,  is  better  than 
nothing.  Perhaps  the  only  way  to  arrive  at  the  best  way  is 
to  make  plenty  of  blunders,  and  find  them  out. 

This  morning  I  had  bt^en  sitting  a  long  time  with  my  pen  in 
my  hand  thinking  what  this  chapter  ought  to  be  about — that 
is,  what  part  of  my  own  history,  or  of  that  of  my  neighbours 
interwoven  therewith,  I  ought  to  take  up  next,  when  my  third 
child,  my  little  Marion,  aged  five,  came  into  the  room,  and 
said — - 

“  Mamma,  there’s  a  poor  man  at  the  door,  and  Jemima  won’t 
give  him  anything.” 

“  Quite  right,  my  dear.  We  must  give  what  we  can  to  people 
we  know.  We  are  sure  then  that  it  is  not  wasted.” 

“Put  he’s  so  very  poor,  mamma  !” 

“  How  do  you  know  that  ?  ” 

“  Poor  man  !  he  has  only  three  children.  I  heard  him  tell 
Jemima.  He  was  so  sorry  !  And  I’m  very  sorry  too.” 

“  But  don’t  you  know  you  mustn’t  go  to  the  door  when  any 
one  is  talking  to  Jemima?  ”  I  said. 

“Yes,  mamma.  I  didn’t  go  to  the  door;  I  stood  in  the 
hall  and  peeped.” 

“  But  you  mustn’t  even  stand  in  the  hall,”  I  said.  “  Mind 
that.” 

This  was,  perhaps,  rather  an  oppressive  reading  of  a  proper 

N  2 


/ 


i So  The  Vicars  Daughter, . 

enough  rule  ;  but  I  had  a  very  special  reason  for  it,  involving 
an  important  event  in  my  story,  which  occurred  about  two  years 
after  what  I  have  last  set  down. 

One  morning  Percivale  took  a  holiday  in  order  to  give  me 
one,  and  we  went  to  spend  it  at  Richmond.  It  was  the  anni¬ 
versary  of  our  marriage,  and  as  we  wanted  to  enjoy  it  thoroughly, 
and,  precious  as  children  are,  every  pleasure  is  not  enhanced 
by  their  company,  we  left  ours  at  home — Ethel  and  her  brother 
Roger  (named  after  Percivale’s  father),  who  was  now  nearly  a 
year  old,  and  wanted  a  good  deal  of  attention.  It  was  a  lovely 
day,  with  just  a  sufficient  number  of  passing  clouds  to  glorify 
—  that  is,  to  do  justice  to — the  sunshine,  and  a  gentle  breeze, 
which  itself  seemed  to  be  taking  a  holiday,  for  it  blew  only  just 
when  you  wanted  it,  and  then  only  enough  to  make  you  think 
of  that  wind  which,  blowing  where  it  lists,  always  blows  where 
it  is  wanted.  We  took  the  train  to  Hammersmith  ;  for  my 
husband,  having  consulted  the  tide-table,  and  found  that  the 
river  would  be  propitious,  wished  to  row  me  from  there  to 
Richmond.  Plow  gay  the  river-side  looked,  with  its  fine  broad 
landing  stage,  and  the  numberless  boats  ready  to  push  off  on 
the  swift  water,  which  kept  growing  and  growing  on  the  shingly 
shore  !  Percivale,  however,  would  hire  his  boat  at  a  certain 
builder’s  shed,  that  I  might  see  it.  That  shed  alone  would 
have  been  worth  coming  to  see — such  a  picture  of  loveliest 
gloom — as  if  it  had  been  the  cave  where  the  twilight  abode  its 
time  !  You  could  not  tell  whether  to  call  it  light  or  shade — • 
that  diffused  presence  of  a  soft  elusive  brown  ;  but  is  what  we 
call  shade  anything  but  subdued  light?  All  about,  above,  and 
below,  lay  the  graceful  creatures  of  the  water — moveless  and 
dead  here  on  the  shore,  but  there — launched  into  their  own 
elemental  world  and  blown  upon  by  the  living  wind — en¬ 
dowed  at  once  with  life  and  motion  and  quick  response. 

Not  having  been  used  to  boats,  I  felt  nervous  as  we  got  into 
the  long,  sharp-nosed,  hollow  fish  which  Percivale  made  them 
shoot  out  on  the  rising  tide  ;  but  the  slight  fear  vanished, 
almost  the  moment  we  were  afloat,  when,  ignorant  as  I  was  of 


I S  l 


My  First  Terror. 

the  art  of  rowing,  I  could  not  help  seeing  how  perfectly  Perci- 
vale  was  at  home  in  it.  The  oars  in  his  hands  were  like  knit¬ 
ting  needles  in  mine,  so  deftly,  so  swimmingly,  so  variously  did 
he  wield  them.  Only  once  my  fear  returned — when  he  stood 
up  in  the  swaying  thing — a  mere  length  without  breadth — to 
pull  off  his  coat  and  waistcoat :  but  he  stood  steady,  sat  down 
gently,  took  his  oars  quietly,  and  the  same  instant  we  were 
shooting  so  fast  through  the  rising  tide  that  it  seemed  as  if  we 
were  pulling  the  water  up  to  Richmond. 

“  Wouldn’t  you  like  to  steer  ?  ”  said  my  husband.  “  It  would 
amuse  you.” 

“  I  should  like  to  learn,”  I  said,  “ — not  that  I  want  to  be 
amused ;  I  am  too  happy  to  care  for  amusement.” 

“  Take  those  two  cords  behind  you,  then, — one  in  each  hand, 
sitting  between  them.  That  will  do.  Now,  if  you  want  me 
to  go  to  your  right,  pull  your  right-hand  cord;  if  you  want  me 
to  go  to  your  left,  pull  your  left-hand  one.” 

I  made  an  experiment  or  two,  and  found  the  predicted  con¬ 
sequences  follow  :  I  ran  him  aground,  first  on  one  bank,  then 
on  the  other.  But  when  I  did  so  a  third  time — 

“  Come  !  come  !  ”  he  said  ;  “  this  won’t  do,  Mrs.  Percivale. 
You’re  not  trying  your  best.  There  is  such  a  thing  as  gradation 
in  steering  as  well  as  in  painting,  or  music,  or  anything  else  that 
is  worth  doing.” 

“  I  pull  the  right  line,  don’t  I  ?  ”  I  said ;  for  I  was  now  in  a 
mood  to  tease  him. 

“  Yes — to  a  wrong  result,”  he  answered.  “  You  must  feel 
your  rudder,  as  you  would  the  mouth  of  your  horse  with  the 
bit— and  not  do  anything  violent,  except  in  urgent  necessity.” 

I  answered  by  turning  the  head  of  the  boat  right  towards  the 
nearer  bank. 

“  I  see  !  ”  he  said,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes.  il  I  have  put  a 
dangerous  power  into  your  hands.  But  never  mind.  The 
Queen  may  decree  as  she  likes  ;  but  the  sinews  of  war,  you 
.now  — 

I  thought  he  meant  that  if  I  went  on  with  my  arbitrary  be- 


182 


The  Vicars  Daughter . 

haviour,  he  would  drop  his  oars  ;  and  for  a  little  while  I  be¬ 
haved  better.  Soon,  however,  the  spirit  of  mischief  prompting 
me,  I  began  my  tricks  again  :  to  my  surprise  I  found  that  I 
had  no  more  command  over  the  boat  than  over  the  huge  barge 
which,  with  its  great  red-brown  sail,  was  slowly  ascending  in 
front  of  us;  I  couldn’t  turn  its  head  an  inch  in  the  direction  I 
wanted. 

“  What  does  it  mean,  Fercivale  ?  ”  I  cried,  pulling  with  all 
my  might,  and  leaning  forward  that  T  might  pull  the  harder. 

“  What  docs  what  mean  ?”  he  returned  coolly. 

“That  I  can’t  move  the  boat.” 

“  Oh  !  It  means  that  I  have  resumed  the  reins  of  govern¬ 
ment.  ” 

“But  how?  I  can’t  understand  it.” 

“  And  I  am  wiser  than  to  make  you  too  wise.  Education  is 
not  a  panacea  for  moral  evils.  I  quote  your  father,  my  dear.” 

And  he  pulled  away  as  if  nothing  were  the  matter. 

“  Please,  I  like  steering,”  I  said  remonstratingly. 

“  And  I  like  rowing.” 

“  I  don’t  see  why  the  two  shouldn’t  go  together.” 

“  Nor  I.  They  ought.  But  not  only  does  the  steering  depend 
on  the  rowing,  but  the  rower  can  steer  himself.” 

“  I  will  be  a  good  girl,  and  steer  properly.” 

“  Very  well ;  steer  away.” 

He  looked  shorewards  as  he  spoke  ;  and  then  first  I  became 
aware  that  he  had  been  watching  my  hands  all  the  time.  The 
boat  now  obeyed  my  lightest  touch. 

How  merrily  the  water  rippled  in  the  sun  and  the  wind  ! 
while  so  responsive  were  our  feelings  to  the  play  of  light  and 
shade  around  us,  that  more  than  once  when  a  cloud  crossed  us, 
I  saw  its  shadow  turn  almost  into  sadness  on  the  countenance 
of  my  companion — to  vanish  the  next  moment  when  the  one 
sun  above  and  the  thousand  mimic  suns  below  shone  out  in 
universal  laughter.  When  a  steamer  came  in  sight,  or  an¬ 
nounced  its-  approach  by  the  far-heard  sound  of  its  beating 
paddies,  it  brought  with  it  a  few  moments  of  almost  awful 


My  First  Terror .  183 

responsibility ;  but  I  found  that  the  presence  of  danger  and 
duty  together,  instead  of  making  me  feel  flurried,  composed  my 
nerves,  and  enabled  me  to  concentrate  my  whole  attention  on 
getting  the  head  of  the  boat  as  nearly  as  possible  at  right  angles 
with  the  waves  from  the  paddles  ;  for  Percivale  had  told  me  that 
if  one  of  any  size  struck  us  on  the  side,  it  would  most  probably 
capsize  us.  But  the  way  to  give  pleasure  to  my  readers  can 
hardly  be  to  let  myself  grow  garrulous  in  the  memory  of  an 
ancient  pleasure  of  my  own.  I  will  say  nothing  more  of  the 
delights  of  that  day.  They  were  such  a  contrast  to  its  close, 
that  twelve  months  at  least  elapsed  before  I  was  able  to  look 
back  upon  them  without  a  shudder;  for  I  could  not  rid  myself 
of  the  foolish  feeling  that  our  enjoyment  had  been  somehow  to 
blame  for  what  was  happening  at  home  while  we  were  thus 
revelling  in  blessed  carelessness. 

When  we  reached  our  little  nest,  rather  late  in  the  evening, 
I  found  to  my  annoyance  that  the  front  door  was  open.  It 
had  been  a  fault  of  which  I  thought  I  had  cured  the  cook — to 
leave  it  thus  when  she  ran  out  to  fetch  anything.  Percivale 
went  down  to  the  study,  and  I  walked  into  the  drawing-room, 
about  to  ring  the  bell  in  anger.  There,  to  my  surprise  and 
further  annoyance,  I  found  Sarah,  seated  on  the  sofa  with  her 
head  in  her  hands,  and  little  Roger  wide  awake  on  the  floor. 

“  What  does  this  mean  ?  ”  I  cried.  “  The  front  door  open  ! 
Master  Roger  still  up  !  and  you  seated  in  the  drawing-room !  ” 

“  Oh,  ma’am  !  ”  she  almost  shrieked,  starting  up  the  moment 
I  spoke,  and,  by  the  time  I  had  put  my  angry  interrogation, 
just  able  to  gasp  out — “  Have  you  found  her,  ma’am?” 

“Found  whom  ?  ”  I  returned,  in  alarm  both  at  the  question 
and  at  the  face  of  the  girl ;  for  through  the  dusk  I  now  saw 
that  it  was  very  pale,  and  that  her  eyes  were  red  with  crying. 

“  Miss  Ethel,”  she  answered,  in  a  cry  choked  with  a  sob  ; 
and  dropping  again  on  the  sofa,  she  hid  her  face  once  more 
between  her  hands. 

I  rushed  to  the  study  door,  and  called  Peituvale ;  then 
returned  to  question  the  girl.  I  wonder  now  that  I  did  nothing 


1^4  The  Vicars  Daughter. 

outrageous,  but  fear  kept  down  folly,  and  made  me  unnaturally 
calm. 

“  Sarah,”  I  said,  as  quietly  as  I  could,  while  I  trembled  all 
over,  iC tell  me  what  has  happened.  Where  is  the  child?” 

“  Indeed  it’s  not  my  fault,  ma’am.-  I  was  busy  with  Master 
Roger,  and  Miss  Ethel  was  down  stairs  with  Jemima.” 

“  Where  is  she  ?  ”  I  repeated  sternly. 

“  I  don’t  know  no  more  than  the  man  in  the  moon,  ma’am.” 

“  Where’s  Jemima  ?  ” 

£<  Run  out  to  look  for  her.” 

“  How  long  have  you  missed  her?” 

“  An  hour.  Or  perhaps  two  hours.  I  don’t  know,  my  head’s 
in  such  a  whirl.  I  can’t  remember  when  I  saw  her  last.  Oh, 
ma’am  !  What  shall  I  do  ?  ” 

Percivale  had  come  up,  and  was  standing  beside  me.  When 
I  looked  round,  he  was  as  pale  as  death  ;  and  at  the  sight  of 
his  face,  I  nearly  dropped  on  the  floor.  But  he  caught  hold 
of  me,  and  said,  in  a  voice  so  dreadfully  still  that  it  frightened 
me  more  than  anything, — 

“  Come,  my  love  ;  do  not  give  way,  for  we  must  go  to  the 
police  at  once.”  Then,  turning  to  Sarah — “  Have  you  searched 
the  house  and  garden  ?  ”  he  asked. 

“  Yes,  sir ;  every  hole  and  corner.  We’ve  looked  under 
every  bed,  and  into  every  cupboard  and  chest — the  coal-cellar, 
the  box-room — everywhere.” 

“  The  bath-room  ?”  I  cried. 

“  Oh,  yes,  ma’am  ;  the  bath-room,  and  everywhere.” 

“  Have  there  been  any  tramps  about  the  house  since  we 
left  ?  ”  Percivale  asked. 

“Not  that  I  know  of;  but  the  nursery  window  looks  into 
the  garden,  you  know,  sir.  Jemima  didn’t  mention  it.” 

“  Come  then,  my  dear,”  said  my  husband. 

He  compelled  me  to  swallow  a  glass  of  wine,  and  led  me 
away,  almost  unconscious  of  my  bodily  movements,  to  the 
nearest  cab-^and.  I  wondered  afterwards  when  I  recalled  the 
calm  gaze  with  which  he  glanced  along  the  line,  and  chose 


185 


My  First  Terror. 

the  horse  whose  appearance  promised  the  best  speed.  In  a  few 
minutes  we  were  telling  the  inspector  at  the  police-station  in 
Albany  Street  what  had  happened.  He  took  a  sheet  of  paper, 
and  asking  one  question  after  another  about  her  age,  appear¬ 
ance,  and  dress,  wrote  down  our  answers.  He  then  called  a 
man,  to  whom  he  gave  the  paper,  with  some  words  of  direction. 

“The  men  are  now  going  on  their  beats  for  the  night,”  he 
said,  turning  again  to  us.  “  They  will  all  hear  the  description 
of  the  child,  and  some  of  them  have  orders  to  search.” 

“  Thank  you,”  said  my  husband.  “  Which  station  had  we 
better  go  to  next  ?  ” 

“  The  news  will  be  at  the  farthest  before  you  could  reach 
the  nearest,”  he  answered.  “  We  shall  telegraph  to  the  suburbs 
first.” 

“  Then  what  more  is  there  we  can  do  ?  ”  asked  Fercivale. 

“  Nothing,”  said  the  inspector,  “  — except  you  find  out 
whether  any  of  the  neighbours  saw  her,  and  when  and  where. 
It  would  be  something  to  know  in  what  direction  she  was  going. 
— Have  you  any  ground  for  suspicion  ?  Have  you  ever  dis¬ 
charged  a  servant  ?  Were  any  tramps  seen  about  the  place  ?  ” 

“I  know  who  it  is  !  ”  I  cried.  “  It’s  the  woman  that  took 
Theodora  !  It’s  Theodora’s  mother  !  I  know  it  is  !  ” 

Percivale  explained  what  I  meant. 

“  That’s  what  people  get,  you  see,  when  they  take  on  them¬ 
selves  other  people’s  business,”  returned  the  inspector.  “  That 
child  ought  to  have  been 'sent  to  the  workhouse.” 

He  laid  his  head  on  his  hand  for  a  moment. 

“  It  seems  likely  enough,”  he  added.  Then  after  another 
pause — “  I  have  your  address.  The  child  shall  be  brought 
back  to  you  the  moment  she’s  found.  We  can’t  mistake  her 
after  your  description.” 

“Where  are  you  going  now?”  I  said  to  my  husband,  as  we 
left  the  station  to  re-enter  the  cab. 

“  I  don’t  know,”  he  answered,  “  except  we  go  home  and 
question  all  the  shops  in  the  neighbourhood.” 

“  Let  us  go  to  Miss  Clare  first,”  I  said. 


1 86  The  Vicar  s  Daughter . 

“  By  all  means,”  he  answered. 

We  were  soon  at  the  entrance  of  Lime  Court. 

When  we  turned  the  corner  in  the  middle  of  it,  we  heard  the 
sound  of  a  piano. 

“  She’s  at  home  !  ”  I  cried,  with  a  feeble  throb  of  satisfaction. 
The  fear  that  she  might  be  out  had  for  the  last  few  moments 
been  uppermost. 

We  entered  the  house,  and  ascended  the  stairs  in  haste.  Not 
a  creature  did  we  meet,  except  a  wicked-looking  cat.  The 
top  of  her  head  was  black,  her  forehead  and  face  white ; 
and  the  black  and  white  were  shaped  so  as  to  look  like  hair 
parted  over  a  white  forehead,  which  gave  her  green  eyes  a 
frightfully  human  look  as  she  crouched  m  the  corner  of  a 
window-sill  in  the  light  of  a  gas-lamp  outside.  But  before  we 
reached  the  top  of  the  first  stair  we  heard  the  sounds  of  dancing 
as  wTell  as  of  music.  In  a  moment  after,  with  our  load  of 
gnawing  fear  and  helpless  eagerness,  we  stood  in  the  midst  of 
a  merry  assembly  of  men  women  and  children,  who  filled  Miss 
Clare’s  room  to  overflowing.  Although  it  was  only  Friday  night, 
they  were  for  some  reason  gathered  for  their  weekly  music. 

They  made  a  -way  for  us,  and  Miss  Clare  left  the  piano  and 
came  to  meet  us,  with  a  smile  on  her  beautiful  face.  But  when 
she  saw  our  faces,  hers  fell. 

“What  A  the  matter,  Mrs.  Percivale?”  she  asked  in  alarm. 

I  sank  on  the  chair  from  which  she  had  risen. 

“  We’ve  lost  Ethel,”  said  my  husband  quietly. 

“  What  do  you  mean?  You  don’t — ” 

“No,  no;  she’s  gone;  she’s  stolen.  We  don’t  know  where 
she  is,”  he  answered  with  faltering  voice.  “  We’ve  just  been 
to  the  police.” 

Miss  Clare  turned  white  ;  but  instead  of  making  any  remark, 
she  called  out  to  some  of  her  friends  whose  good  manners  were 
making  them  leave  the  room, — 

“  Don’t  go,  please;  we  want  you.”  Then  turning  to  me. 
she  asked,  “  May  I  do  as  I  think  best  ?  ” 

“  Yes,  certainly,”  answered  my  husband. 


My  First  Terror.  1 87 

“  My  friend,  Mrs.  Percivale,”  she  said,  addressing  the  whole 
assembly,  “  has  lost  her  little  girl.” 

A  murmur  of  dismay  and  sympathy  arose. 

“  What  can  we  do  to  find  her?  ”  she  went  on. 

They  fell  to  talking  among  themselves.  The  next  instant, 
two  men  came  up  to  us,  making  their  way  from  the  neighbour¬ 
hood  of  the  door.  The  one  was  a  keen-faced  elderly  man,  with 
iron-grey  whiskers  and  clean-shaved  chin ;  the  other  was  my 
first  acquaintance  in  the  neighbourhood,  the  young  bricklayer. 
The  elder  addressed  my  husband,  while  the  other  listened  with¬ 
out  speaking. 

“  Tell  us  what  she's  like,  sir,  and  how  she  was  dressed — 
though  that  ain’t  much  use.  She’ll  be  all  different  by  this  time.” 

The  words  shot  a  keener  pang  to  my  heart  than  it  had  yet 
felt.  My  darling  stripped  of  her  nice  clothes,  and  covered  with 
dirty,  perhaps  infected  garments  !  But  it  was  no  time  to  give 
way  to  feeling. 

My  husband  repeated  to  the  men  the  description  he  had 
given  the  police,  loud  enough  for  the  whole  room  to  hear ;  and 
the  women  in  particular,  Miss  Clare  told  me  afterwards,  caught 
it  up  with  remarkable  accuracy.  They  wTould  not  have  done  so, 
she  said,  but  that  their  feelings  were  touched. 

“Tell  them  also,  please,  Mr.  Percivale,  about  the  child  Mrs. 
Percivale’s  father  and  mother  found  and  brought  up.  That 
may  have  something  to  do  with  this.” 

My  husband  told  them  all  the  story,  adding  that  the  mother 
of  the  child  might  have  found  out  who  we  were,  and  taken  ours 
as  a  pledge  for  the  recovery  of  her  own. 

Here  one  of  the  women  spoke. 

“That  dark  woman  you  took  in  one  night — two  years  ago, 
miss — she  say  something.  I  was  astin’-of  her  in  the  mornin’ 
what  her  trouble  was,  for  that  trouble  she  had  on  her  mind  was 
plain  to  see,  and  she  come  over  something,  half-way  like,  about 
losin’  of  a  child  ;  but  whether  it  were  dead,  or  strayed,  or  stolen, 
or  what,  I  couldn’t  tell;  and  no  more,  I  believe,  she  wanted 
me  too.” 


y??. 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter. 

Here  another  woman  spoke. 

“  I'm  ’most  sure  I  saw  her — the  same  woman — two  days  ago, 
tnd  no  furrer  off  than  Gower  Street,”  she  said.  “  You’re  too 
good  by  half,  miss,”  she  went  on,  “  to  the  likes  of  sich.  They 
ain’t  none  of  them  respectable.” 

“  Perhaps  you’ll  see  some  good  come  out  of  it  before  long,” 
said  Miss  Clare  in  reply. 

The  words  sounded  like  a  rebuke,  for  all  this  time  I  had 
hardly  sent  a  thought  upwards  for  help.  The  image  of  my 
chi'd  had  so  filled  my  heart  that  there  was  no  room  left  for 
the  thought  of  duty,  or  even  of  God. 

Miss  Clare  went  on,  still  addressing  the  company,  and  her 
v,  \  rds  had  a  tone  of  authority. 

I  will  tell  you  what  you  must  do,”  she  said.  “  You  must, 
ev  :ry  one  of  you,  run  and  tell  everybody  you  know,  and  tell 
every  one  to  tell  everybody  else.  You  mustn’t  stop  to  talk  it 
ov<  r  with  each  other,  or  let  those  you  tell  it  to  stop  to  talk  to 
you  about  it,  for  it  is  of  the  greatest  consequence  no  time 
should  be  lost  in  making  it  as  quickly  and  as  widely  known  as 
pos  ible.  Go,  please.” 

In  a  few  moments  the  room  was  empty  of  all  but  ourselves. 
The  rush  on  the  stairs  was  tremendous  for  a  single  minute, 
and  then  all  was  still.  Even  the  children  had  rushed  out  to 
tell  what  other  children  they  could  find. 

“  What  must  we  do  next  ?  ”  said  my  husband. 

Miss  Clare  thought  for  a  moment. 

“  I  would  go  and  tell  Mr.  Blackstone,”  she  said.  “  It  is  a 
long  way  from  here,  but  whoever  has  taken  the  child  would 
not  be  likely  to  linger  in  the  neighbourhood.  It  is  best  to  try 
everything.” 

“  Right,”  said  my  husband.  “  Come,  Wynnie.” 

“Wouldn’t  it  be  better  to  leave  Mrs.  Percivale  with  me?” 
said  Miss  Clare.  “  It  is  dreadfully  fatiguing  to  go  driving  over 
the  stones.” 

It  was  very  kind  of  her;  but  if  she  had  been  a  mother  she 
would  not  have  thought  of  parting  me  from  my  husband  ; 


189 


My  First  Terror. 

neither  would  she  have  fancied  that  I  could  remain  inactive 
so  long  as  it  was  possible  even  to  imagine  I  was  doing  some¬ 
thing  ;  but  when  I  told  her  how  I  felt,  she  saw  at  once  that  it 
would  be  better  for  me  to  go. 

We  set  off  instantly,  and  drove  to  Mr.  Blackstone’s.  What 
a  long  way  it  was  !  Down  Oxford  Street  and  Holborn  we 
rattled  and  jolted,  and  then  through  many  narrow  ways  in 
which  I  had  never  been,  emerging  at  length  in  a  broad  road, 
with  many  poor  and  a  few  fine  old  houses  in  it ;  then  again 
plunging  into  still  more  shabby  regions  of  small  houses,  which, 
alas  !  were  new  and  yet  wretched  !  At  length,  near  an  open 
space,  where  yet  not  a  blade  of  grass  could  grow  for  the  tramp¬ 
ling  of  many  feet,  and  for  the  smoke  from  tall  chimneys,  close 
by  a  gasometer  of  awful  size,  we  found  the  parsonage,  and  Mr. 
Blackstone  in  his  study.  The  moment  he  heard  our  story  he 
went  to  the  door  and  called  his  servant.  “  Run,  Jabez,”  he 
said,  ‘‘and  tell  the  sexton  to  ring  the  church-bell.  I  will  come 
to  him  directly  I  hear  it.” 

I  may  just  mention  that  Jabez  and  his  wife,  who  formed  the 
whole  of  Mr.  Blackstone’s  household,  did  not  belong  to  his 
congregation,  but  were  members  of  a  small  community  in  the 
neighbourhood  calling  themselves  Peculiar  Baptists. 

About  ten  minutes  passed,  during  which  little  was  said  : 
Mr.  Blackstone  never  seemed  to  have  any  mode  of  expressing 
his  feelings  except  action,  and  where  that  was  impossible  they 
took  hardly  any  recognizable  shape.  When  the  first  boom  of 
the  big  bell  filled  the  little  study  in  which  we  sat,  I  gave  a  cry, 
and  jumped  up  from  my  chair  :  it  sounded  in  my  ears  like 
the  knell  of  my  lost  baby,  for  at  the  moment  I  was  thinking  of 
her  as  once  when  a  baby  she  lay  for  dead  in  my  arms.  Mr. 
Blackstone  got  up  and  left  the  room,  and  my  husband  rose 
and  would  have  followed  him ;  but,  saying  he  would  be  back 
in  a  few  minutes,  he  shut  the  door  and  left  us.  It  was  half  an 
hour — a  dreadful  half  hour,  before  he  returned,  for  to  sit  doing 
nothing,  not  even  being  carried  somewhere  to  do  something, 
was  frightful. 


190 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter. 

“  I’ve  told  them  all  about  it,”  he  said.  “  I  couldn’t  do 
better  than  follow  Mbs  Clare’s  example.  But  my  impression 
is,  that  if  the  woman  you  suspect  be  the  culprit,  she  would 
make  her  way  out  to  the  open  as  quickly  as  possible.  Such 
people  are  most  at  home  on  the  commons ;  they  are  of  a  less 
gregarious  nature  than  the  wild  animals  of  the  town.  What 
shall  you  do  next  ?  ” 

“  That  is  just  what  I  want  to  know,”  answered  my  hus¬ 
band. 

He  never  asked  advice  except  when  he  did  not  know  what 
to  do  )  and  never  except  from  one  whose  advice  he  meant  to 
follow. 

“  Well,”  returned  Mr.  Blackstone,  “  I  should  put  an  adver¬ 
tisement  into  every  one  of  the  morning  papers.” 

“  But  the  offices  will  all  be  closed,”  said  Percivale. 

“  Yes  ;  the  publishing,  but  not  the  printing  offices.” 

“  How  am  I  to  find  out  where  they  are  ?  ” 

“  I  know  one  or  two  of  them,  and  the  people  there  will  tell 
us  the  rest” 

“  Then  you  mean  to  go  with  us  ?  ” 

“  Of  course  I  do — that  is,  if  you  will  have  me.  You  don’t 
think  I  would  leave  you  to  go  alone  ?  Have  you  had  any 
supper  ? ” 

“  No.  Would  you  like  something,  my  dear?  ”  said  Percivale 
turning  to  me. 

“  I  couldn’t  swallow  a  mouthful,”  I  said. 

“  Nor  I  either,”  said  Percivale. 

“Then  I’ll  just  take  a  hunch  of  bread  with  me,”  said  Mr. 
Blackstone,  “  for  I  am  hungry.  I’ve  had  nothing  since  one 
o’clock.” 

We  neither  asked  him  not  to  go,  nor  offered  to  wait  till  he 
had  had  his  supper.  Before  we  reached  Printing-house  Square 
he  had  eaten  half  a  loaf. 

“  Are  you  sure,”  said  my  husband,  as  we  were  starting,  “  that 
they  will  take  an  advertisement  at  the  printing-office  ?” 

“  1  think  they  will.  The  circumstances  gre  pressing.  They 


My  First  Terror . 


191 

will  see  that  we  are  honest  people,  and  will  make  a  push  to 
help  us.  But  for  anything  I  know  it  may  be  quite  en  regie.” 

“  We  must  pay,  though,”  said  Percivale,  putting  his  hand  in 
his  pocket,  and  taking  out  his  purse.  “There!  Just  as  I 
feared  !  No  money  ! — Two — three  shillings — and  sixpence  !  ” 

Mr.  Blackstone  stopped  the  cab. 

“  I’ve  not  got  as  much,”  he  said.  “  But  it’s  of  no  conse¬ 
quence.  I’ll  run  and  write  a  cheque.” 

“But  where  can  you  change  it?  The  little  shops  about 
here  won’t  be  able.” 

“  There’s  the  Blue  Posts.” 

“  Let  me  take  it,  then.  You  won’t  be  seen  going  into  a 
public-house  ?  ”  said  Percivale. 

“  Pooh  !  pooh  !  ”  said  Mr.  Blackstone.  “  Do  you  think  my 
character  won’t  stand  that  much  ?  Besides,  they  wouldn’t 
change  it  for  you.  But  when  I  think  of  it,  I  used  the  last 
cheque  in  my  book  in  the  beginning  of  the  week.  Never  mind; 
they  will  lend  me  five  pounds.” 

We  drove  to  the  Blue  Posts.  He  got  out,  and  returned  in 
one  minute  with  five  sovereigns. 

“  What  will  people  say  to  your  borrowing  five  pounds  at  a 
public-house?”  said  Percivale. 

“  If  they  say  what  is  right,  it  won’t  hurt  me.” 

“  But  if  they  say  what  is  wrong  ?  ” 

“  That  they  can  do  any  time,  and  that  won’t  hurt  me  either.’' 

“  But  what  will  the  landlord  himself  think  ?  ” 

“  I  have  no  doubt  he  feels  grateful  to  me  for  being  so  friendly. 
You  can't  oblige  a  man  more  than  by  asking  a  light  favour  of 
him.”  ~ 

“  Do  you  think  it  well  in  your  position  to  be  obliged  to  a 
man  in  his  ?  ”  asked  Percivale. 

“  I  do.  I  am  glad  of  the  chance.  It  will  bring  me  into 
friendly  relations  with  him.” 

“  Do  you  wish  then  to  be  in  friendly  relations  with  him  ?  ” 

“  Indubitably.  In  what  other  relations  do  you  suppose  a 
clergyman  ought  to  be  with  one  of  his  parishioners?” 


192 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter . 

“  You  didn’t  invite  him  into  your  parish,  I  presume.” 

“  No  ;  and  he  didn’t  invite  me.  The  thing  was  settled  in 
higher  quarters.  There  we  are  anyhow  ;  and  I  have  done  quite 
a  stroke  of  business  in  borrowing  that  money  of  him.” 

Mr.  Blackstone  laughed,  and  the  laugh  sounded  frightfully 
harsh  in  my  ears. 

“  A  man — ”  my  husband  went  on,  who  was  surprised  that  a 
clergyman  should  be  so  liberal — a  man  who  sells  drink  ! — ■ 
in  whose  house  so  many  of  your  parishioners  will  to-morrow 
night  get  too  drunk  to  be  in  church  next  morning  i  ” 

“  I  wish  having  been  drunk  were  what  would  keep  them 
from  being  in  church.  Drunk  or  sober,  it  would  be  all  the 
same.  Few  of  them  care  to  go.  They  are  turning  out  better, 
however,  than  when  first  I  came.  As  for  the  publican,  who 
knows  what  chance  of  doing  him  a  good  turn  it  may  put  in 
my  way  ?  ” 

“  You  don’t  expect  to  persuade  him  to  shut  shop?” 

“No;  he  must  persuade  himself  to  that.” 

“  What  good,  then,  can  you  expect  to  do  him  ?  ” 

“  Who  knows  ?  I  say.  You  can’t  tell  what  good  may  or 
may  not  come  out  of  it,  any  more  than  you  can  tell  which  of 
your  efforts,  or  which  of  your  helpers,  may  this  night  be  the 
means  of  restoring  your  child.” 

“  What  do  you  expect  the  man  to  say  about  it  ?  ” 

“  I  shall  provide  him  with  something  to  say.  I  don’t  want 
him  to  attribute  it  to  some  foolish  charity.  He  might.  In 
the  New  Testament,  publicans  are  acknowledged  to  have 
hearts.” 

“  Yes  ;  but  the  word  has  a  very  different  meaning  in  the 
New  Testament.” 

“The  feeling  religious  people  bear  towards  them,  however, 
comes  very  near  to  that  with  which  society  regarded  the 
publicans  of  old.” 

“  They  are  far  more  hurtful  to  society  than  those  tax- 
gatherers.” 

“  They  may  be.  I  dare  say  they  are.  Perhaps  they  are 


My  First  Terror.  19,5 

worse  than  the  sinners  with  whom  their  namesakes  of  the  New 
Testament  are  always  coupled.” 

I  will  not  follow  the  conversation  further ;  I  will  only  give 
the  close  of  it.  Percivale  told  me  afterwards  that  he  had  gone 
on  talking  in  the  hope  of  diverting  my  thoughts  a  little. 

“  What  then  do  you  mean  to  tell  him?”  asked  Percivale. 

“  The  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth,” 
said  Mr.  Blackstone.  “  I  shall  go  in  to-morrow  morning,  just 
at  the  time  when  there  will  probably  be  far  too  many  people 
at  the  bar — a  little  after  noon.  I  shall  return  him  his  five 
sovereigns,  ask  for  a  glass  of  ale,  and  tell  him  the  whole  story — - 
how  my  friend,  the  celebrated  painter,  came  with  his  wife — - 
and  the  rest  of  it,  adding,  I  trust,  that  the  child  is  all  right,  and 
at  the  moment  probably  going  out  for  a  walk  with  her  mother, 
who  won't  let  her  out  of  her  sight  for  a  moment.” 

He  laughed  again,  and  again  I  thought  him  heartless;  but 
I  understand  him  better  now.  I  wondered,  too,  that  Percivale 
could  go  on  talking,  and  yet  I  found  that  their  talk  did  make 
the  time  go  a  little  opiicker.  At  length  we  reached  the  printing- 
office  of  The  Times — near  Blackfriars  Bridge,  I  think. 

Alter  some  delay,  we  saw  an  overseer,  who,  curt  enough  a ♦ 
first,  became  friendly  when  he  heard  our  case.  If  he  had  not 
had  children  of  his  own,  we  might  perhaps  have  fared  worse. 
He  took  down  the  description  and  address,  and  promised  that 
the  advertisement  should  appear  in  the  morning’s  paper  in  the 
best  place  he  could  now  find  for  it. 

Before  we  left,  we  received  minute  directions  as  to  the 
whereabouts  of  the  next  nearest  office.  We  spent  the  greater 
part  of  the  night  in  driving  from  one  printing-office  to  another. 
Mr.  Blackstone  declared  he  would  not  leave  us  until  we  had 
found  her. 

“  You  have  to  preach  twice  to-morrow,”  said  Percivale  :  it 
was  then  three  o’clock. 

“I  shall  preach  all  the  better,”  he  returned. — “Yes;  I  feel 
as  if  I  should  give  them  one  good  sermon  to-morrow.” 

“ Tie  man  talks  as  if  the  child  were  found  already!”  I 


o 


*94 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter . 

thought  with  indignation.  “  It’s  a  pity  he  hasn’t  a  child  of  his 
own  !  —  he  would  be  more  sympathetic.”  At  the  same  time  if  I 
had  been  honest  I  should  have  confessed  to  myself  that  his 
confidence  and  hope  helped  to  keep  me  up. 

At  last,  having  been  to  the  printing-office  of  every  daily  paper 
in  London,  we  were  on  our  dreary  way  home.  Oh,  how 
dreary  it  was  ! — and  the  more  dreary  that  the  cool,  sweet  light 
of  a  spring  dawn  was  growing  in  every  street,  no  smoke 
having  yet  begun  to  pour  from  the  multitudinous  chimneys  to 
sully  its  purity  !  From  misery  and  want  of  sleep,  my  soul  and 
body  both  felt  like  a  grey  foggy  night.  Every  now  and  then 
the  thought  of  my  child  came  with  a  ffesh  pang — not  that  she 
was  one  moment  absent  from  me,  but  that  a  new  thought  about 
her  would  dart  a  new  sting  into  the  ever-burning  throb  of 
the  wound.  If  you  had  asked  me  the  one  blessed  thing  in  the 
world,  I  should  have  said  sleep — with  my  husband  and  children 
beside  me.  But  I  dreaded  sleep  now,  both  for  its  visions  and 
for  the  frightful  waking.  Nowand  then  I  would  start  violently, 
thinking  I  heard  my  Ethel  cry ;  but  from  the  cab-window  no 
child  was  ever  to  be  seen,  down  all  the  lonely  street.  Then  I 
would  sink  into  a  succession  of  efforts  to  picture  to  myself  her 
little  face — white  with  terror  and  misery,  and  smeared  with  the 
dirt  of  the  pitiful  hands  that  rubbed  the  streaming  eyes.  They 
might  have  beaten  her  !  she  might  have  cried  herself  to  sleep  in 
some  wretched  hovel — or,  worse,  in  some  fever-stricken  and 
crowded  lodging-house,  with  horrible  sights  about  her  and 
horrible  voices  in  her  ears  !  Or  she  might  at  that  moment  be 
dragged  wearily  along  a  country-road,  farther  and  farther  from 
her  mother  !  I  could  have  shrieked  and  torn  my  hair.  What 
if  I  should  never  see  her  again?  She  might  be  murdered,  and 
I  never  know  it  !  O  my  darling  !  my  darling ! 

At  the  thought  a  groan  escaped  me.  A  hand  was  laid  on  my 
arm.  That  I  knew  was  my  husband’s.  But  a  voice  was  in  my 
ear,  and  that  was  Mr.  Blackstone’s. 

“  Do  you  think  God  loves  the  child  less  than  you  do  ?  Or 
do  you  think  he  is  less  able  to  take  care  of  her  than  you  are  ? 


195 


My  First  Terror. 

When  the  disciples  thought  themselves  sinking,  Jesus  rebuked 
them  for  being  afraid.  Be  still,  and  you  will  see  the  hand  of 
God  in  this.  Good  you  cannot  foresee  will  come  out  of  it.” 

I  could  not  answer  him,  but  I  felt  both  rebuked  and  grateful. 

All  at  once  I  thought  of  Roger.  What  would  he  say  when 
he  found  that  his  pet  was  gone,  and  we  had  never  told  him  ? 

“Roger!”  I  said  to  my  husband.  “We’ve  never  told 
him  !  ” 

“  Let  us  go  now,”  he  returned. 

We  were  at  the  moment  close  to  North  Crescent. 

After  a  few  thundering  raps  at  the  door,  the  landlady  came 
down.  Percivale  rushed  up,  and  in  a  few  minutes  returned 
with  Roger.  They  got  into  the  cab.  A  great  talk  followed, 
but  I  heard  hardly  anything,  or  rather  I  heeded  nothing.  I 
only  recollect  that  Roger  was  very  indignant  with  his  brothel 
for  having  been  out  all  night  without  him  to  help. 

“  I  never  thought  of  you,  Roger,”  said  Percivale. 

“  So  much  the  worse  !  ”  said  Roger. 

“No,”  said  Mr.  Blackstone.  “A  thousand  things  make  us 
forget.  I  daresay  your  brother  all  but  forgot  God  in  the  first 
misery  of  his  loss.  To  have  thought  of  you  and  not  to  have 
told  you,  would  have  been  another  thing.” 

A  few  minutes  after,  we  stopped  at  our  desolate  house, 
and  the  cabman  was  dismissed  with  one  of  the  sovereigns 
from  the  Blue  Posts.  I  wondered  afterwards  what  manner 
of  man  or  woman  had  changed  it  there.  A  dim  light  was 
burning  in  the  drawing-room.  Percivale  took  his  pass-key 
and  opened  the  door.  I  hurried  in  and  went  straight  to  my 
own  room,  for  I  longed  to  be  alone  that  I  might  weep — nor 
weep  only.  I  fell  on  my  knees  by  the  bedside,  buried  my 
face,  and  sobbed  and  tried  to  pray.  But  I  could  not  collect 
my  thoughts,  and,  overwhelmed  by  a  fresh  access  of  despair,  I 
started  again  to  my  feet. 

Could  I  believe  my  eyes !  What  was  that  in  the  bed  ? 
Trembling  as  with  an  ague — in  terror  lest  the  vision  should 
by  vanishing  prove  itself  a  vision— I  stooped  towards  it.  I 

o  2 


i 


I  g 6  The  Vicar  s  Daughter. 

heard  a  breathing  !  It  was  the  fair  hair  and  the  rosy  face  of 
my  darhng — fast  asleep — without  one  trace  of  suffering  on  her 
angelic  loveliness.  I  remember  no  more  for  a  wh  le.  They 
tell  me  I  gave  a  great  cry  and  fell  on  the  floor.  When  I  came 
to  myself  I  was  lying  on  the  bed.  My  husband  was  bending 
over  me,  and  Roger  and  Mr.  Blackstone  were  both  in  the 
room.  I  could  not  speak,  but  my  husband  understood  my 
questioning  gaze. 

“  Yes,  yes,  my  love,”  he  said  quietly  ;  “  she’s  all  right- 
safe  and  sound,  thank  God  !  ” 

And  I  did  thank  God. 

Mr.  Blackstone  came  to  the  bedside  with  a  look  and  a 
smile  that  seemed  to  my  conscience  to  say,  “  1  told  you  so.”  I 
held  out  my  hand  to  him,  but  could  only  weep.  Then  I  re¬ 
membered  how  we  had  vexed  Roger,  and  called  him. 

“  Dear  Roger,”  I  said,  “  forgive  me,  and  go  and  tell  Miss 
Clare.” 

I  had  some  reason  to  think  this  the  best  amends  I  could 
make  him. 

11 1  will  go  at  once,”  he  said.  “She  will  be  anxious.” 

“And  I  will  go  to  my  sermon,”  said  Mr.  Blackstone,  with  the 
same  quiet  smile. 

They  shook  hands  with  me,  and  went  away.  And  my 
husband  and  I  rejoiced  over  our  first-born. 


Its  Sequel . 


197 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

ITS  SEQUEL, 

My  darling  was  recovered  neither  through  Miss  Clare’s  in¬ 
junctions  nor  Mr.  Blackstone’s  bell-ringing.  A  woman  was 
walking  steadily  westward,  carrying  the  child  asleep  in  her 
arms,  when  a  policeman  stopped  her  at  Turnham  Green. 
She  betrayed  no  fear,  only  annoyance,  and  offered  no  resistance, 
only  begged  he  would  not  wake  the  child,  or  take  her  from 
her.  He  brought  them  in  a  cab  to  the  police-station,  whence 
the  child  was  sent  home.  As  soon  as  she  arrived,  Sarah  gave 
her  a  warm  bath  and  put  her  to  bed,  but  she  scarcely  opened 
her  eyes. 

Jemima  had  run  about  the  streets  till  midnight,  and  then 
fallen  asleep  on  the  doorstep,  where  the  policeman  found  her 
when  he  brought  the  child.  For  a  week  she  went  about  like 
one  dazed,  and  the  blunders  she  made  were  marvellous.  She 
ordered  a  brace  of  cod  from  the  poulterer,  and  a  pound  of 
anchovies  at  the  crockery  shop.  One  day  at  dinner,  we  could 
not  think  how  the  chops  were  so  pulpy,  and  we  got  so  many  bits 
of  bone  in  our  mouths  :  she  had  powerfully  beaten  them  as  if 
they  had  been  steaks.  She  sent  up  melted  butter  for  bread 
sauce,  and  stuffed  a  hare  with  sausages. 

After  breakfast,  Percivale  walked  to  the  police-station,  to 
thank  the  inspector,  pay  what  expenses  had  been  incurred,  and 
see  the  woman.  I  was  not  well  enough  to  go  with  him. — M} 
Marion  is  a  white-faced  thing,  and  her  eyes  look  much  too  big 
for  her  small  face. — I  suggested  that  he  should  take  Miss  Clare. 
As  it  was  early,  he  was  fortunate  enough  to  find  her  at  home, 
and  she  accompanied  him  willingly,  and  at  once  recognized  the 
woman  as  the  one  she  had  befriended. 

He  told  the  magistrate  he  did  not  wish  to  punish  her,  but 
that  there  were  certain  circumstances  which  made  him  desirous 
of  detaining  her  until  a  gentleman,  who,  he  believed,  could 


198  The  Vicar  s  Daughter . 

identify  her,  should  arrive;  The  magistrate  therefore  remanded 
her. 

The  next  day  but  one  my  father  came.  When  he  saw  her,  he 
had  little  doubt  she  was  the  same  that  had  carried  off  Theo  ;  but 
he  could  not  be  absolutely  certain,  because  he  had  seen  her  only 
by  moonlight.  He  told  the  magistrate  the  whole  story,  saying 
that,  if  she  should  prove  the  mother  of  the  child,  he  was  most 
anxious  to  try  what  he  could  do  for  her.  The  magistrate  ex¬ 
pressed  grave  doubts  whether  he  would  find  it  possible  to  be¬ 
friend  her  to  any  effectual  degree.  My  father  said  he  would  try, 
if  he  could  but  be  certain  she  was  the  mother. 

“  If  she  stole  the  child  merely  to  compel  the  restitution  of 
her  own,”  he  said,  “  I  cannot  regard  her  conduct  with  any 
abhorrence.  But  if  she  is  not  the  mother  of  the  child,  I  must 
leave  her  to  the  severity  of  the  law.” 

“  I  once  discharged  a  woman,”  said  the  magistrate,  “  who 
had  committed  the  same  offence,  for  I  was  satisfied  she  had 
done  so  purely  from  the  desire  to  possess  the  child.” 

“  But  might  not  a  thief  say  he  was  influenced  merely  by  the 
desire  to  add  another  sovereign  to  his  hoard  ?  ” 

“The  greed  of  the  one  is  a  natural  affection ;  that  of  the 
other  a  vice.” 

“  But  the  injury  to  the  loser  is  far  greater  in  the  one  case  than 
in  the  other.” 

“  To  set  that  off,  however,  the  child  is  more  easily  dis¬ 
covered.  Besides,  the  false  appetite  grows  with  indulgence, 
whereas  one  child  would  still  the  natural  one.” 

“  Then  you  would  allow  her  to  go  on  stealing  child  after  child 
until  she  succeeded  in  keeping  one,”  said  my  father,  laughing. 

“  I  dismissed  her  with  the  warning  that  if  ever  she  did  so 
again,  this  would  be  brought  up  against  her,  and  she  would  have 
the  severest  punishment  the  law  could  inflict.  It  may  be  right  to 
pass  a  first  offence,  and  wrong  to  pass  a  second.  I  tried  to  make 
her  measure  the  injury  done  to  the  mother  by  her  own  sorrow  at 
losing  the  child,  and  I  think  not  without  effect.  At  all  events,  it 
was  some  years  ago,  and  I  have  not  heard  of  her  again.” 


199 


Its  Sequel. 

Now  came  in  the  benefit  of  the  kindness  Miss  Clare  had 
shown  the  woman.  I  doubt  if  anyone  else  could  have  got  the 
truth  from  her.  Even  she  found  it  difficult ;  for,  to  tell  her  that 
if  she  was  Theo’s  mother,  she  should  not  be  punished,  might  be 
only  to  tempt  her  to  lie.  All  Miss  Clare  could  do  was  to 
assure  her  of  the  kindness  of  every  one  concerned,  and  to  urge 
her  to  disclose  her  reasons  for  doing  such  a  grievous  wrong  as 
steal  another  woman’s  child. 

“  They  stole  my  child,”  she  blurted  out  at  last,  when  the 
cruelty  of  the  action  was  pressed  upon  her. 

“  Oh,  no  i”  said  Miss  Clare;  “  you  left  her  to  die  in  the  cold.” 

“  No,  no  !  ”  she  cried.  “  I  wanted  somebody  to  hear  her  and 
take  her  in.  I  wasn’t  far  off,  and  was  just  going  to  take  her  again, 
when  I  saw  a  light,  and  heard  them  searching  for  her.  Oh  dear  ! 
Oh  dear !  ” 

“  Then  how  can  you  say  they  stole  her  ?  You  would  have  had 
no  child  at  all  but  for  them.  She  was  nearly  dead  when  they 
found  her  !  And  in  return  you  go  and  steal  their  grandchild  !  ” 

“  They  took  her  from  me  afterwards.  They  wouldn’t  let  me 
have  my  own  flesh  and  blood.  I  wanted  to  let  them  know  what 
it  was  to  have  their  child  taken  from  them.” 

“  How  could  they  tell  she  was  your  child,  when  you  stole  her 
away  like  a  thief?  It  might,  for  anything  they  knew,  be  some 
other  woman  stealing  her,  as  you  stole  theirs  the  other  day. 
What  would  have  become  of  you,  if  it  had  been  so  ?  ” 

To  this  reasoning  she  made  no  answer. 

“  I  want  my  child  ;  I  want  my  child,”  she  moaned.  Then 
breaking  out — “  I  shall  kill  myself  if  I  don’t  get  my  child  !  ”  she 
cried.  “  O  lady,  you  don’t  know  what  it  is  to  have  a  child  and 
not  have  her !  I  shall  kill  myself  if  they  don’t  give  me  her 
back.  They  can’t  say  I  did  their  child  any  harm.  I  was  as 
good  to  her  as  if  she  had  been  my  own.” 

“  They  know  that  quite  well,  and  don’t  want  to  punish  you. 
Would  you  like  to  see  your  child  ?  ” 

She  clasped  her  handsaboveher  head,  fell  on  her  knees  at  Miss 
Clare’s  feet,  and  looked  rp  in  her  face  without  uttering  a  woid. 


200 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter . 

“  I  will  speak  to  Mr.  Walton,”  said  Miss  Clare,  and  left  her. 

The  next  morning  she  was  discharged  at  the  request  of  my 
husband,  who  brought  her  home  with  him. 

Sympathy  with  the  mother-passion  in  her  bosom  had  melted 
away  all  my  resentment.  She  was  a  fine  young  woman  of  about 
five  and  twenty,  though  her  weather  browned  complexion  made 
her  look  at  first  much  older.  With  the  help  of  the  servants,  I 
persuaded  her  to  have  a  bath,  during  which  they  removed  her 
clothes,  and  substituted  others.  She  objected  to  putting  them 
on,  seemed  half-frightened  at  them,  as  if  they  might  involve  some 
shape  of  bondage,  and  begged  to  have  her  own  again.  At  last 
Jemima,  who,  although  so  sparingly  provided  with  brains,  is  not 
without  genius,  prevailed  upon  her,  insisting  that  her  little  girl 
would  turn  away  from  her  if  she  wasn’t  well  dressed,  for  she  had 
been  used  to  see  ladies  about  her.  With  a  deep  sigh,  she  yielded, 
begging  however  to  have  her  old  garments  restored  to  her. 

She  had  brought  with  her  a  small  bundle,  tied  up  in  a  cotton 
handkerchief,  and  from  it  she  now  took  a  scarf  of  red  silk,  and 
twisted  it  up  with  her  black  hair  in  a  fashion  I  had  never  seen 
before.  In  this  head-dress  she  had  almost  a  brilliant  look,  while 
her  carriage  had  a  certain  dignity  hard  of  association  with 
poverty — not  inconsistent  however  with  what  I  have  since 
learned  about  the  gipsies.  My  husband  admired  her  even  more 
than  I  did,  and  made  a  very  good  sketch  of  her.  Her  eyes  were 
large  and  dark — unquestionably  fine;  and  if  there  was  not  much 
of  the  light  of  thought  in  them,  they  had  a  certain  wildness 
which  in  a  measure  made  up  for  the  want.  She  had  rather  a 
Spanish  than  an  eastern  look,  I  thought  — with  an  air  of  defiance 
that  prevented  me  from  feeling  at  ease  with  her  ;  but  in  the 
pr(  sence  of  Miss  Clare  she  seemed  humbler,  and  answered  her 
questions  more  readily  than  ours.  If  Ethel  was  in  the  room,  her 
eyes  would  be  constantly  wandering  after  her,  with  a  wistful, 
troubled,  eager  look.  Surely  the  mother-passion  must  have  in¬ 
finite  relations  and  destinies  ! 

As  I  was  unable  to  leave  home,  my  father  persuaded  Miss 
Clare  to  accompany  him  and  help  him  to  take  charge  of  her.  I 


201 


Its  Sequel. 

confess  it  was  a  relief  to  me  when  she  left  the  house,  for  though 
I  wanted  to  be  as  kind  to  her  as  I  could,  I  felt  considerable  dis¬ 
comfort  in  her  presence. 

When  Miss  Clare  returned  the  next  day  but  one,  I  found  she 
had  got  from  her  the  main  points  of  her  history,  fully  justifying 
previous  conjectures  of  my  father’s,  founded  on  what  he  knew 
of  the  character  and  customs  of  the  gipsies. 

She  belonged  to  one  of  the  principal  gipsy  families  in  this 
country.  The  fact  that  they  had  no  settled  habitation,  but 
lived  in  tents  like  Abraham  and  Isaac,  had  nothing  to  do  with 
poverty.  The  silver  buttons  on  her  father’s  Sunday  clothes, 
were,  she  said,  worth  nearly  twenty  pounds;  and  when  a  friend  of 
any  distinction  came  to  tea  with  them,  they  spread  a  table-cloth 
of  fine  linen  on  the  grass,  and  set  out  upon  it  the  best  of  china, 
and  a  tea-service  of  hall-marked  silver.  She  said  her  friends — as 
much  as  any  gentleman  in  the  land — scorned  stealing;  and 
affirmed  that  no  real  gipsy  would  “risk  his  neck  for  his 
belly,”  except  he  were  driven  by  hunger.  All  her  family  could 
read,  she  said,  and  carried  a  big  Bible  about  with  them. 

One  summer  they  were  encamped  for  several  months  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Edinburgh,  making  horn-spoons  and  baskets, 
and  some  of  them  working  in  tin.  There  they  were  visited  by  a 
clergyman  who  talked  and  read  the  Bible  to  them  and  prayed 
with  them.  But  all  their  visitors  were  not  of  the  same  sort  with 
him.  One  of  them  was  a  young  fellow  of  loose  character,  a  clerk 
in  the  city,  who,  attracted  by  her  appearance,  prevailed  upon 
her  to  meet  him  often.  She  was  not  then  eighteen.  Any  aberra¬ 
tion  from  the  paths  of  modesty  is  exceedingly  rare  among  the 
gipsies,  and  regarded  with  severity;  and  her  father,  hearing  of  this, 
gave  her  a  terrible  punishment  with  the  whip  he  used  in  driving 
his  horses.  In  terror  of  what  would  follow  when  the  worst  came 
to  be  known,  she  ran  away,  and,  soon  forsaken  by  her  so-called 
iover,  wandered  about,  a  common  vagrant,  until  her  baby  was 
born — under  the  stars,  on  a  summer  night,  in  a  field  of  long 
grass. 

For  some  time  she  wandered  up  and  down,  longing  to  join 


202  The  Vicar  s  Daughter. 

some  tribe  of  her  own  people,  but  dreading  unspeakably  the 
disgrace  of  her  motherhood.  At  length,  having  found  a 
home  for  her  child,  she  associated  herself  with  a  gang  of  gipsies 
of  inferior  character,  amongst  whom  she  had  many  hardships 
to  endure.  Things  however  bettered  a  little  after  one  of  their 
number  was  hanged  for  stabbing  a  cousin,  and  her  position 
improved.  It  was  not  however  any  intention  of  carrying  off 
her  child  to  share  her  present  lot,  but  the  urgings  of  mere 
mother-hunger  for  a  sight  of  her,  that  drove  her  to  the  Hall. 
When  she  had  succeeded  in  enticing  her  out  of  sight  of  the 
house,  however,  the  longing  to  possess  her  grew  fierce,  and, 
braving  all  consequences,  or  rather,  I  presume,  unable  to  weigh 
them,  she  did  carry  her  away.  Foiled  in  this  attempt,  and 
seeing  that  her  chances  of  future  success  in  any  similar  one 
were  diminished  by  it,  she  sought  some  other  plan.  Learning 
that  one  of  the  family  was  married  and  had  removed  to  London, 
she  succeeded  through  gipsy  acquaintances,  who  lodged 
occasionally  near  Tottenham  Court  Road,  in  finding  out  where 
we  lived,  and  carried  off  Ethel  with  the  vague  intent,  as  we 
had  rightly  conjectured,  of  using  her  as  a  means  for  the 
recovery  of  her  own  child. 

Theodora  was  now  about  seven  years  of  age — almost  as  wild 
as  ever.  Although  tolerably  obedient,  she  was  not  nearly  so 
much  so  as  the  other  children  had  been  at  her  age — partly, 
perhaps,  because  my  father  could  not  bring  himself  to  use  that 
severity  to  the  child  of  other  people  with  which  he  had  judged 
it  proper  to  treat  his  own. 

Miss  Clare  was  present  with  my  father  and  the  rest  of  the  family 
when  the  mother  and  daughter  met.  They  were  all  more  than 
curious  to  see  how  the  child  would  behave,  and  whether 
there  would  be  any  signs  of  an  instinct  that  drew  hei  to  her 
parent.  In  this,  however,  they  were  disappointed. 

It  was  a  fine  warm  forenoon  when  she  came  running  on  to 
the  lawn  where  they  were  assembled— the  gipsy  mother  with 
them. 


Its  Sequel,  203 

“There  she  is  !”  said  my  father  to  the  woman.  “  Make  the 
best  of  yourself  you  can.” 

Miss  Clare  said  the  poor  creature  turned  very  pale,  but  her 
eyes  glowed  with  such  a  fire  ! 

With  the  cunning  of  her  race,  she  knew  better  than  to  bound 
forward  and  catch  up  the  child  in  her  arms.  She  walked  away 
from  the  rest,  and  stood  watching  the  little  damsel,  romping 
merrily  with  Mr.  Wagtail.  They  thought  she  recognized  the 
dog,  and  was  afraid  of  him.  She  had  put  on  a  few  silver 
ornaments  which  she  had  either  kept  or  managed  to  procure 
notwithstanding  her  poverty;  for  both  the  men  and  women  of 
her  race  manifest  in  a  strong  degree  that  love  for  barbaric 
adornment  which,  as  well  as  other  their  peculiarities,  points  to 
an  eastern  origin.  The  glittering  of  these  in  the  sun,  and  the 
glow  of  her  red  scarf  in  her  dark  hair,  along  with  the  strangeness 
of  her  whole  appearance,  attracted  the  child,  and  she  approached 
to  look  at  her  nearer.  Then  the  mother  took  from  her  pocket 
a  large  gilded  ball,  which  had  probably  been  one  of  the  orna¬ 
ments  on  the  top  of  a  clock,  and  rolled  it  gleaming  golden 
along  the  grass.  Theo  and  Mr.  Wagtail  bounded  after  it  with 
a  shriek  and  a  bark.  Having  examined  it  for  a  moment,  the 
child  threw  it  again  along  the  lawn,  and  this  time  the  mother, 
lithe  as  a  leopard,  and  fleet  as  a  savage,  joined  in  the  chase, 
caught  it  first,  and  again  sent  it  spinning  away — farther  from 
the  assembled  group.  Once  more  all  three  followed  in  swift 
pursuit ;  but  this  time  the  mother  took  care  to  allow  the  child 
to  seize  the  treasure.  After  the  sport  had  continued  a  little 
while,  what  seemed  a  general  consultation  of  mother,  child,  and 
dog,  took  place  over  the  bauble ;  and  presently  they  saw  that 
Theo  was  eating  something. 

“  I  trust,”  said  my  mother,  “  she  won’t  hurt  the  child  with 
any  nasty  stuff.” 

“  She  will  not  do  so  wittingly,”  said  my  father,  “  you  may  be 
sure.  Anyhow,  we  must  not  interfere.” 

In.  a  few  minutes  more  the  mother  approached  them,  with  a 


204 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter. 

subdued  look  of  triumph  and  her  eyes  overflowing  with  light, 
carrying  the  child  in  her  arms.  Theo  was  playing  with  some 
foreign  coins  which  adorned  her  hair,  and  with  a  string  of  coral 
and  silver  beads  round  her  neck. 

For  the  rest  of  the  day  they  were  left  to  do  much  as  they 
pleased,  only  every  one  kept  good  watch. 

But  in  the  joy  of  recovering  her  child,  the  mother  seemed 
herself  to  have  gained  a  new  and  childlike  spirit.  The  more 
than  willingness  with  which  she  hastened  to  do  what,  even  in 
respect  of  her  child,  was  requested  of  her,  as  if  she  fully  acknow¬ 
ledged  the  right  of  authority  in  those  who  had  been  her  best 
friends,  was  charming.  Whether  this  would  last  when  the 
novelty  of  the  new  experience  had  worn  off,  whether  jealousy 
would  not  then  come  in  for  its  share  in  the  ordering  of  her 
conduct,  remained  to  be  shown  ;  but  in  the  meantime  the  good 
in  her  was  uppermost. 

She  was  allowed  to  spend  a  whole  fortnight  in  making 
friends  with  her  daughter,  before  a  word  was  spoken  about  the 
future,  the  design  of  my  father  being  through  the  child  to  win 
the  mother.  Certain  people  considered  him  not  eager  enough 
to  convert  the  wicked :  whatever  apparent  indifference  he 
showed  in  that  direction,  arose  from  his  utter  belief  in  the 
guiding  of  God,  and  his  dread  of  outrunning  his  designs.  He 
would  follow  the  operations  of  the  spirit. 

“Your  forced  hothouse  fruits,”  he  would  say,  “are  often 
finer  to  look  at  than  those  which  have  waited  for  God’s  wind 
and  weather,  but  what  are  they  worth  in  respect  of  all  for  the 
sake  of  which  fruit  exists  ?  ” 

Until  an  opportunity,  then,  was  thrown  in  his  way,  he  would 
hold  back  ;  but  when  it  was  clear  to  him  that  he  had  to  minister, 
then  was  he  thoughtful,  watchful,  instant,  unswerving.  You 
might  have  seen  him  during  this  time,  as  the  letters  of  Connie 
informed  me,  often  standing  for  minutes  together  watching  the 
mother  and  daughter,  and  pondering  in  his  heart  concern  ing  them. 

Every  advantage  being  thus  afforded  her,  not  without  the 
stirring  of  some  natural  pangs  in  those  who  had  hitherto 


Its  Sequel \ 


205 


mothered  the  child,  the  fortnight  had  not  passed  before  to  all 
appearance  the  unknown  mother  was  with  the  child  the 
greatest  favourite  of  all.  And  it  was  my  father’s  expectation, 
for  he  was  a  profound  believer  in  blood,  that  the  natural  and 
generic  instincts  of  the  child  would  be  developed  together  ;  in 
other  words,  that  as  she  grew  in  what  was  common  to  humanity, 
she  would  grow  likewise  in  what  belonged  to  her  individual 
origin.  This  was  not  an  altogether  comforting  expectation  to 
those  of  us  who  neither  had  so  much  faith  as  he,  nor  saw  so 
hopefully  the  good  that  lay  in  every  evil. 

One  twilight,  he  overheard  the  following  talk  between  them. 
When  they  came  near  where  he  sat,  Theodora,  carried  by  her 
mother,  and  pulling  at  her  neck  with  her  arms,  was  saying, 
“  Tell  me  ;  tell  me ;  tell  me,”  in  the  tone  of  one  who  would 
compel  an  answer  to  a  question  repeatedly  asked  in  vain. 

“  What  do  you  want  me  to  tell  you  ?  ”  said  her  mother. 

“  You  know  well  enough.  Tell  me  your  name.” 

In  reply  she  uttered  a  few  words  my  father  did  not  com¬ 
prehend,  and  took  to  be  Zingaree.  The  child  shook  her  petu¬ 
lantly  and  with  violence,  crying, 

“  That’s  nonsense.  I  don’t  know  what  you  say,  and  I  don’t 
know  what  to  call  you.” 

My  father  had  desired  the  household,  if  possible,  to  give  no 
name  to  the  woman  in  the  child’s  hearing. 

“  Call  me  mam,  if  you  like.” 

“  But  you’re  not  a  lady,  and  I  won’t  say  ma’am  to  you,” 
said  Theo,  rude  as  a  child  will  sometimes  be  when  least  she 
intends  offence. 

Her  mother  set  her  down,  and  gave  a  deep  sigh.  Was  it 
only  that  the  child’s  restlessness  and  roughness  tired  her?  My 
father  thought  otherwise. 

“  led  me,  tell  me,”  the  child  persisted,  beating  her  with  her 
little  clenched  fist.  “Take  me  up  again,  and  tell  me,  or  I  will 
make  you.” 

My  father  thought  it  time  to  interfere.  He  stepped  forward. 
The  mother  smarted  with  a  little  cry,  and  caught  up  the  child. 


20  6 


The  Vicar's  Daughter 

“  Theo,”  said  my  father,  “  I  cannot  allow  you  to  be  rude,  es* 
pecially  to  one  who  loves  you  more  than  any  one  else  loves  you.” 

The  woman  set  her  down  again,  dropped  on  her  knees,  and 
caught  and  kissed  his  hand. 

The  child  stared  ;  but  she  stood  in  awe  of  my  father — 
perhaps  the  more  that  she  had  none  for  any  one  else — and, 
when  her  mother  lifted  her  once  more,  was  carried  away  in 
silence. 

The  difficulty  was  got  over  by  the  child’s  being  told  to  call 
her  mother  Nurse . 

My  father  was  now  sufficiently  satisfied  with  immediate  re¬ 
sults  to  carry  out  the  remainder  of  his  contingent  plan,  of 
which  my  mother  heartily  approved.  The  gardener  and 
his  wife  being  elderly  people,  and  having  no  family,  therefore 
not  requiring  the  whole  of  their  cottage,  which  was  within  a 
short  distance  of  the  house,  could  spare  a  room,  which  my 
mother  got  arranged  for  the  gipsy,  and  there  she  was  housed, 
with  free  access  to  her  child,  and  the  understanding  that  when 
Theo  liked  to  sleep  with  her,  she  was  at  liberty  to  do  so. 

She  was  always  ready  to  make  herself  useful ;  but  it  was  little 
she  could  do  for  some  time,  and  it  was  with  difficulty  that  she 
settled  to  any  occupation  at  all  continuous. 

Before  long  it  became  evident  that  her  old  habits  were 
working  in  her  and  making  her  restless.  She  was  pining  after 
the  liberty  of  her  old  wandering  life — with  sun  and  wind,  space 
and  change,  all  about  her.  It  was  spring  ;  and  the  reviving  life 
of  nature  was  rousing  in  her  the  longing  for  motion  and  room 
and  variety  engendered  by  the  roving  centuries  which  had 
passed  since  first  her  ancestors  were  driven  from  their  homes  in 
far  Hindostan.  But  my  father  had  foreseen  the  probability, 
and  had  already  thought  over  what  could  be  done  for  her  if  the 
wandering  passion  should  revive  too  powerfully.  He  reasoned 
that  there  was  nothing  bad  in  such  an  impulse — one  doubtless 
which  would  have  been  felt  in  all  its  force  by  Abraham  himself, 
had  he  quitted  his  tents  and  gone  to  dwell  in  a  city — however 
much  its  indulgence  might  place  her  at  a  disadvantage  in  the 


Its  Sequel. 


207 


midst  of  a  settled  social  order.  He  saw  too  that  any  attempt 
to  coerce  it  would  probably  result  in  entire  frustration  ;  that 
the  passion  for  old  forms  of  freedom  would  gather  tenfold 
vigour  in  consequence.  It  would  be  far  better  to  favour  its 
indulgence,  in  the  hope  that  the  love  of  her  child  would,  like 
an  elastic  but  infrangible  cord,  gradually  tame  her  down  to  a 
more  settled  life. 

He  proposed,  therefore,  that  she  should,  as  a  matter  of  duty, 
go  and  visit  her  parents,  and  let  them  know  of  her  welfare. 
She  looked  alarmed. 

“  Your  father  will  show  you  no  unkindness,  I  am  certain, 
after  the  lapse  of  so  many  years,”  he  added.  “  Think  it  over, 
and  tell  me  to-morrow  how  you  feel  about  it.  You  shall  go 
by  train  to  Edinburgh,  and  once  there  you  will  soon  be  able  to 
find  them.  Of  course  you  couldn’t  take  the  child  with  you, 
but  she  will  be  safe  with  us  till  you  come  back.” 

The  result  was  that  she  went,  and  having  found  her  people, 
and  spent  a  fortnight  with  them,  returned  in  less  than  a  month. 
The  rest  of  the  year  she  remained  quietly  at  home,  stilling  her 
desires  by  frequent  and  long  rambles  with  her  child,  in  which 
Mr.  Wagtail  always  accompanied  them.  My  father  thought  it 
better  to  run  the  risk  of  her  escaping  than  force  the  thought  of 
it  upon  her  by  appearing  not  to  trust  her.  But  it  came  out 
that  she  had  a  suspicion  that  the  dog  was  there  to  prevent,  or 
at  least  expose  any  such  imprudence.  The  following  spring 
she  went  on  a  second  visit  to  her  friends,  but  was  back  within 
a  week,  and  the  next  year  did  not  go  at  all. 

Meantime  my  father  did  what  he  could  to  teach  her,  pre¬ 
senting  every  truth  as  something  it  was  necessary  she  should 
teach  her  child.  With  this  duty,  he  said,  he  always  baited  the 
hook  with  which  he  fished  for  her  ; — “  or,  to  take  a  figure  from 
the  old  hawking  days,  her  eyas  is  the  lure  with  which  I  would 
reclaim  the  haggard  hawk.” 

What  will  be  the  final  result,  who  dares  prophesy?  At  my 
old  home  she  still  resides — grateful,  and  in  some  measure 
useful,  idolizing,  but  not  altogether  spoiling  her  child — who 


208 


7 he  Vicars  Daughter. 

understands  the  relation  between  them,  and  now  calls  hera 
mother. 

Dora  teaches  Theo,  and  the  mother  comes  in  for  what  share 
she  inclines  to  appropriate.  She  does  not  take  much  to 
reading,  but  she  is  fond  of  listening,  and  is  a  regular  and  de¬ 
vout  attendant  at  public  worship.  Above  all,  they  have 
sufficing  proof  that  her  conscience  is  awake,  and  that  she  gives 
some  heed  to  what  it  says. 

Mr.  Blackstone  was  right  when  he  told  me  that  good  I  was 
unable  to  foresee  would  result  from  the  loss  which  then  drowned 
me  in  despair. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

TROUBLES. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  following  year,  the  lady  who  filled 
Miss  Clare’s  place  was  married,  and  Miss  Clare  resumed  the 
teaching  of  Judy’s  children.  She  was  now  so  handsomely  paid 
for  her  lessons  that  she  had  reduced  the  number  of  her  engage¬ 
ments  very  muchv  and  had  more  time  to  give  to  the  plans  in 
which  she  laboured  with  Lady  Bernard.  The  latter  would 
willingly  have  settled  such  an  annuity  upon  her  as  would  have 
enabled  her  to  devote  all  her  time  to  this  object;  but  Miss 
Clare  felt  that  the  earning  of  her  bread  was  one  of  the  natural 
ties  that  brund  her  in  the  bundle  of  social  life,  and  that  in 
what  she  did  of  a  spiritual  kind,  she  must  be  untrammelled  by 
money-relations.  If  she  could  not  do  both  — provide  for  her¬ 
self  and  assist  others — it  would  be  a  different  thing,  she  said, 
for  then  it  would  be  clear  that  Providence  intended  her  to 
receive  the  hire  of  the  labourer  for  the  necessity  laid  upon  her. 
But  what  influenced  her  chiefly  was  the  dread  of  having  any¬ 
thing  she  did  for  her  friends  attributed  to  professional  motives 
instead  of  the  recognition  of  eternal  relations.  Besides,  as  she 


Troubles. 


209 


✓ 


said,  it  would  both  lessen  the  means  at  Lady  Bernard’s  dis¬ 
posal,  and  cause  herself  to  feel  bound  to  spend  all  her  energies 
in  that  one  direction,  in  which  case  she  would  be  deprived  of 
the  recreative  influences  of  change  and  more  polished  society. 
In  her  labour  she  would  yet  feel  her  freedom,  and  would  not 
serve  even  Lady  Bernard  for  money,  except  she  saw  clearly 
that  such  was  the  will  of  the  one  master.  In  thus  refusing  her 
offer,  she  but  rose  in  her  friend’s  estimation. 

In  the  spring,  great  trouble  fell  upon  the  Morleys.  One  of 
the  children  was  taken  with  scarlet  fever ;  and  then  another 
and  another  was  seized  in  such  rapid  succession — until  five  of 
them  were  lying  ill  together — that  there  was  no  time  to  think 
of  removing  them.  Cousin  Judy  would  accept  no  assistance 
in  nursing  them  beyond  that  of  her  own  maids,  until  her 
strength  gave  way  and  she  took  the  infection  herself  in  the 
form  of  diphtheria,  when  she  was  compelled  to  take  to  her 
bed,  in  such  agony  at  the  thought  of  handing  her  children  over 
to  hired  nurses,  that  there  was  great  ground  for  fearing  her 
strength  would  yield. 

She  lay  moaning,  with  her  eyes  shut,  when  a  hand  was  laid 
on  hers,  and  Miss  Clare’s  voice  was  in  her  ear.  She  had  come 
to  give  her  usual  lesson  to  one  of  the  girls  who  had  as  yet 
escaped  the  infection — for,  while  she  took  every  precaution, 
she  never  turned  aside  from  her  work  for  any  dread  of  con¬ 
sequences  ;  and  when  she  heard  that  Mrs.  Morley  had  been 
taken  ill,  she  walked  straight  to  her  room. 

“  Go  away,”  said  Judy.  “  Do  you  want  to  die  too  ?  ” 

“Dear  Mrs.  Morley,”  said  Miss  Clare,  “I  will  just  run  home, 
and  make  a  few  arrangements,  and  then  come  back  and  nurse  you.” 

“Never  mind  me,”  said  Judy.  “The  children!  the  children! 
What  shall  I  do  ?  ” 

“  I  am  quite  able  to  look  after  you  all —  if  you  will  allow  me 
to  bring  a  young  woman  to  help  me.” 

“You  are  an  angel  !”  said  poor  Judy.  “But  there  is  no 
occasion  to  bring  any  one  with  you.  My  servants  are  quite 
competent.” 

p 


210 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter. 

i(  I  must  have  everything  in  my  own  hands/'  said  Miss  Clare  ; 
“  and  therefore  must  have  some  one  who  will  do  exactly  as  1 
tell  her.  This  girl  has  been  with  me  now  for  some  time,  and 
I  can  depend  upon  her.  Servants  always  look  down  upon 
governesses.” 

“  Do  whatever  you  like,  you  blessed  creature,”  said  Judy. 
“  If  any  one  of  my  servants  behaves  improperly  to  you,  or 
neglects  your  orders,  she  shall  go  as  soon  as  I  am  up  again.” 

“  I  would  rather  give  them  as  little  opportunity  as  I  can  of 
running  the  risk.  If  I  may  bring  this  friend  of  my  own,  I  shall 
soon  have  the  house  under  hospital  regulations.  But  I  have 
been  talking  too  much.  I  might  almost  have  returned  by  this 
time.  It  is  a  bad  beginning  if  I  have  hurt  you  already  by  say¬ 
ing  more  than  was  necessary.” 

She  had  hardly  left  the  room  before  Judy  had  fallen  asleep, 
so  much  was  she  relieved  by  the  offer  of  her  services.  Ere  she 
awoke,  Marion  was  in  a  cab  on  her  way  back  to  Bolivar  Square, 
with  her  friend  and  two  carpet  bags.  Within  an  hour,  she  had 
entrenched  herself  in  a  spare  bedroom,  had  lighted  a  fire,  got 
encumbering  finery  out  of  the  way,  arranged  all  the  medicines 
on  a  chest  of  drawers,  and  set  the  clock  on  the  mantel-piece 
going,  made  the  round  of  the  patients,  who  were  all  in  adjoin¬ 
ing  rooms,  and  the  round  of  the  house,  to  see  that  the  disin¬ 
fectants  were  fresh  and  active,  added  to  their  number,  and 
then  gone  to  await  the  arrival  of  the  medical  attendant  in  Mrs. 
Morley’s  room. 

“Dr.  Brand  might  have  been  a  little  more  gracious,”  said 
Judy  ;  “  but  I  thought  it  better  not  to  interrupt  him  by  explain¬ 
ing  that  you  were  not  the  professional  nurse  he  took  you  for.” 

“  Indeed  there  was  no  occasion,”  answered  Miss  Clare.  “  I 
should  have  told  him  so  myself,  had  it  not  been  that  I  did  a 
nurse’s  regular  work  in  St.  George’s  Hospital  for  two  months, 
and  have  been  there  for  a  week  or  so  several  times  since,  so 
that  I  believe  I  have  earned  the  right  to  be  spoken  to  as  such. 
Anyhow,  I  understood  every  word  he  said.” 

Meeting  Mr.  Morley  in  the  hall,  the  doctor  advised  him  not 


Troubles. 


21  I 


to  go  near  his  wife,  diphtheria  being  so  infectious;  but  com¬ 
forted  him  with  the  assurance  that  the  nurse  appeared  an  in¬ 
telligent  young  person,  who  would  attend  to  all  his  directions  ; 
adding, — 

“  I  could  have  wished  she  had  been  older,  but  there  is  a 
great  deal  of  illness  about,  and  experienced  nurses  are  scarce.” 

Miss  Clare  was  a  week  in  the  house  before  Mr.  Morley  saw 
her,  or  knew  she  was  there.  One  evening  she  ran  down  to 
the  dining-room,  where  he  sat  over  his  lonely  glass  of  Madeira, 
to  get  some  brandy,  and  went  straight  to  the  sideboard.  As 
she  turned  to  leave  the  room,  he  recognized  her,  and  said,  in 
some  astonishment, — 

“  You  need  not  trouble  yourself,  Miss  Clare.  The  nurse  can 
get  what  she  wants  from  Hawkins.  Indeed  I  don’t  see — * 

“  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Morley.  If  you  wish  to  speak  to  me,  I 
will  return  in  a  few  minutes  ;  but  I  have  a  good  deal  to  attend 
to  just  at  this  moment.” 

She  left  the  room,  and,  as  he  had  said  nothing  in  reply,  did 
not  return. 

Two  days  after,  about  the  same  hour,  whether  suspecting 
the  fact,  or  for  some  other  reason,  he  requested  the  butler  to 
send  the  nurse  to  him. 

“  The  nurse  from  the  nursery,  sir ;  or  the  young  person  as 
teaches  the  young  ladies  the  piano  ?  ”  asked  Hawkins. 

“  I  mean  the  sick- nurse,”  said  his  master. 

In  a  fewr  minutes  Miss  Clare  entered  the  dining-room,  and 
approached  Mr.  Morley. 

“  How  do  you  do,  Miss  Clare  ?  ”  he  said  stiffly,  for  to  any 
one  in  his  employment  he  was  gracious  only  now  and  then. 
“  Allow  me  to  say  that  I  doubt  the  propriety  of  your  being 
here  so  much.  You  cannot  fail  to  carry  the  infection.  I  think 
your  lessons  had  better  be  postponed  until  all  your  pupils  are 
able  to  benefit  by  them.  I  have  just  sent  for  the  nurse,  and, 
—  if  you  please — ” 

“  Yes.  Hawkins  told  me  you  wanted  me,”  said  Miss  Clare. 

“  I  did  not  want  you.  He  must  have  mistaken.” 

V  2 


212 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter . 

“  I  am  the  nurse,  Mr.  Morley.” 

“  Then  I  must  say  it  is  not  with  my  approval,”  he  ret  lrned, 
rising  from  his  chair  in  anger.  “  I  was  given  to  understand 
that  a  properly  qualified  person  was  in  charge  of  my  wife  and 
family.  This  is  no  ordinary  case  where  a  little  coddhng  is  all 
that  is  wanted.” 

“  I  am  perfectly  qualified,  Mr.  Morley.” 

He  walked  up  and  down  the  room  several  times. 

“  I  must  speak  to  Mrs.  Morley  about  this,”  he  said. 

“  I  entreat  you  will  not  disturb  her.  She  is  not  so  well  this 
afternoon.” 

“  How  is  this,  Miss  Clare  ?  Pray  explain  to  me  how  it  is 
that  you  come  to  be  taking  a  part  in  the  affairs  of  the  family 
so  very  different  from  that  for  which  Mrs.  Morley — which — 
was  arranged  between  Mrs.  Morley  and  yourself.” 

“  It  is  but  an  illustration  of  the  law  of  supply  and  demand,” 
answered  Marion.  “  A  nurse  was  wanted ;  Mrs.  Morley  had 
strong  objections  to  a  hired  nurse,  and  I  was  very  glad  to  be 
able  to  set  her  mind  at  rest.” 

‘  “  It  was  very  obliging  in  you,  no  doubt,”  he  returned,  forcing 
the  admission  •  “but — but — ” 

“Let  us  leave  it  for  the  present,  if  you  please  ;  for  while  I 
am  nurse,  I  must  mind  my  business.  Dr.  Brand  expresses 
himself  quite  satisfied  with  me  so  far  as  we  have  gone,  and  it 
is  better  for  the  children,  not  to  mention  Mrs.  Morley,  to  have 
some  one  about  them  they  are  used  to.” 

She  left  the  room  without  waiting  further  parley. 

Dr.  Brand,  however,  not  only  set  Mr.  Morley’s  mind  at  rest 
as  to  her  efficiency,  but,  when  a  terrible  time  of  anxiety  was  at 
length  over,  during  which  one  after  another,  and  especially 
Judy  herself,  had  been  in  great  danger,  assured  him  that,  but 
for  the  vigilance  and  intelligence  of  Miss  Clare,  joined  to  a 
certain  soothing  influence  which  she  exercised  over  every  one 
of  her  patients,  he  did  not  believe  he  could  have  brought  Mis. 
Morley  through.  Then  indeed  he  changed  his  tone  to  her — 
in  a  measure,  still  addressing  her  as  from  a  height  of  superiority. 


Troubles . 


213 


They  had  recovered  so  far  that  they  were  to  set  out  the 
next  morning  for  Hastings,  when  he  thus  addressed  her,  having 
sent  for  her  once  more  to  the  dining-room. 

“  I  hope  you  will  accompany  them,  Miss  Clare,”  he  said. 
“  By  this  time  you  must  be  in  no  small  need  of  a  change 
yourself.” 

“  The  best  change  for  me  will  be  Lime  Court,”  she  an¬ 
swered,  laughing. 

“  Now  pray  don’t  drive  your  goodness  to  the  verge  of  ab¬ 
surdity,”  he  said  pleasantly. 

“  Indeed  I  am  anxious  about  my  friends  there,”  she  returned. 
“  I  fear  they  have  not  been  getting  on  quite  so  well  without 
me.  A  bible-woman  and  a  Roman  Catholic  have  been  quar¬ 
relling  dreadfully,  I  hear.” 

Mr.  Morley  compressed  his  lips.  It  7c>as  annoying  to  be  so 
much  indebted  to  one  who,  from  whatever  motives,  called  such 
people  her  friends. 

“  Oblige  me,  then,”  he  said  loftily,  taking  an  envelope  from 
the  mantel-piece,  and  handing  rt  to  her,  “  by  opening  that  at 
your  leisure.” 

“  I  will  open  it  now,  if  you  please,”  she  returned. 

It  contained  a  banknote  for  a  hundred  pounds.  Mr.  Morley, 
though  a  hard  man,  was  not  by  any  means  stingy.  She  re¬ 
placed  it  in  the  envelope,  and  laid  it  again  on  the  chimney-piece. 

“You  owe  me  nothing,  Mr.  Morley,”  she  said 

“  Owe  you  nothing  !  I  owe  you  more  than  I  can  ever  repay.” 

“Then  don’t  try  it,  please.  You  are  very  generous;  but 
indeed  I  could  not  accept  it.” 

“You  must  oblige  me. — You  might  take  it  from  me ,”  he 
added  almost  pathetically,  as  if  the  bond  was  so  close  that 
money  was  nothing  between  them. 

“You  are  the  last — one  of  the  last  I  could  take  money  from, 
Mr.  Morley.” 

*  Why  ?  ” 

“  Because  you  think  so  much  of  it,  and  yet  would  look 
down  on  me  the  more  if  I  accepted  it.” 


214 


The  Vicar's  Daughter . 

He  bit  his  lip,  rubbed  his  forehead  with  his  hand,  threw 
back  his  head,  and  turned  away  from  her. 

“  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  offend  you,”  she  said,  “  and  be¬ 
lieve  me,  there  is  hardly  anything  I  value  less  than  money. 

I  have  enough,  and  could  have  plenty  more  if  I  liked.  I 
would  rather  have  your  friendship  than  all  the  money  you 
possess.  But  that  cannot  be  so  long  as — ” 

She  stopped;  she  was  on  the  point  of  going  too  far,  she  ' 
thought. 

“  So  long  as  what  ?  ”  he  returned  sternly. 

“  So  long  as  you  are  a  worshipper  of  Mammon,”  she  answered, 
and  left  the  room. 

She  burst  out  crying  when  she  came  to  this  point.  She  had 
narrated  the  whole  with  the  air  of  one  making  a  confession. 

“  I  am  afraid  it  was  very  wrong,”  she  said  ;  “  and  if  so,  then 
it  was  very  rude  as  well.  But  something  seemed  to  force  it 
out  of  me.  Just  think: — there  was  a  generous  heart  clogged 
up  with  self-importance  and  wealth !  To  me,  as  he  stood 
there  on  the  hearth-rug,  he  was  a  most  pitiable  object — with 
an  impervious  wall  betwixt  him  and  the  kingdom  of  heaven ! 
He  seemed  like  a  man  in  a  terrible  dream  from  which  I  must 
awake  him  by  calling  aloud  in  his  ear — except  that,  alas  !  the 
dream  was  not  terrible  to  him,  only  to  me  !  If  he  had  been 
one  of  my  poor  friends,  guilty  of  some  plain  fault,  I  should 
have  told  him  so  without  compunction,  and  why  not,  being 
What  he  was  ?  There  he  stood — a  man  of  estimable  qualities — ■ 
of  beneficence  if  not  bounty — no  miser,  nor  consciously  unjust 
* — yet  a  man  whose  heart  the  moth  and  rust  were  eating  into  a 
sponge  ! — who  went  to  church  every  Sunday,  and  had  many 
friends,  not  one  of  whom — not  even  his  own  wife — would  tell 
him  that  he  was  a  Mammon-worshipper,  and  losing  his  life. 

It  may  have  been  useless,  it  may  have  been  wrong,  but  I  felt 
driven  to  it  by  bare  human  pity  for  the  misery  I  saw”  before 
me.” 

“  It  looks  to  me  as  if  you  had  the  message  given  you  to  give 
him,”  I  said. 

.  ^ 

“  But — though  I  don’t  know  it — whaf  if  I  was  annoyed  with 


Troubles. 


215 


him  for  offering  me  that  wretched  hundred  pounds— in  doing 
which  he  was  acting  up  to  the  light  that  was  in  him  ?  ” 

I  could  not  help  thinking  of  the  light  which  is  darkness, 
but  I  did  not  say  so.  Strange  tableau,  in  this  our  would-be 
grand  nineteenth  century — a  young  and  poor  woman,  prophet¬ 
like  rebuking  a  wealthy  London  merchant  on  his  own  hearth¬ 
rug,  as  a  worshipper  of  Mammon  !  I  think  she  was  right — 
not  because  he  was  wrong,  but  because,  as  I  firmly  believe,  she 
did  it  from  no  personal  motives  whatever,  although  in  her 
modesty  she  doubted  herself.  I  believe  it  was  from  pure  re¬ 
gard  for  the  man  and  for  the  truth,  urging  her  to  an  irrepressible 
utterance.  If  so,  should  we  not  say  that  she  spoke  by  the 
Spirit  ?  Only  I  shudder  to  think  what  utterance  might  with 
an  equal  outward  show,  be  attributed  to  the  same  spirit. 
Well — to  his  own  master  every  one  standeth  or  falleth,  whether 
an  old  prophet  who,  with  a  lie  in  his  right  hand,  entraps  an 
honourable  guest,  or  a  young  prophet,  who,  with  repentance  in 
his  heart,  walks  calmly  into  the  jaws  of  the  waiting  lion.1 

And  no  one  can  tell  what  effect  the  words  may  have  had 
upon  him.  I  do  not  believe  he  ever  mentioned  the  circum¬ 
stance  to  his  wife.  At  all  events  there  was  no  change  in  her 
manner  to  Miss  Clare.  Indeed  I  could  not  help  fancying  that 
a  little  halo  of  quiet  reverence  now  encircled  the  love  in  every 
look  she  cast  upon  her.  She  firmly  believed  that  Marion  had 
saved  her  life  and  that  of  more  than  one  of  her  children.  No¬ 
thing,  she  said,  could  equal  the  quietness  and  tenderness  and 
tirelessness  of  her  nursing.  She  was  never  flurried,  never  im¬ 
patient,  and  never  frightened.  Even  when  the  tears  would  be 
flowing  down  her  face,  the  light  never  left  her  eyes  nor  the 
music  her  voice  ;  and  when  they  were  all  getting  better,  and 
she  had  the  nursery  piano  brought  out  on  the  landing  in  the 
middle  of  the  sick-rooms,  and  there  played  and  sung  to  them, 
it  was,  she  said,  like  the  voice  of  an  angel  come  fresh  to  the 
earth  with  the  same  old  news  of  peace  and  good  will.  When 

1  See  the  Sermons  of  the  Rev.  Henry  Whitehead,  vicar  of  St. 
yohn’s,  Limehouse;  as  remarkable  for  the  profundity  of  their  insight 
as  for  the  noble  severity  of  their  literary  modelling,— G.  M.  D. 


21 6 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter, 

the  children — this  I  had  from  the  friend  she  brought  with  her-* 
were  tossing  in  the  fever,  and  talking  of  strange  and  frightful 
things  they  saw,  one  word  from  her  would  quiet  them,  and 
her  gentle  command  was  always  sufficient  to  make  the  most 
rebellious  take  his  medicine. 

She  came  out  of  it  very  pale,  and  a  good  deal  worn.  But 
the  day  they  set  off  for  Hastings,  she  returned  to  Lime  Court. 
The  next  day  she  resumed  her  lessons,  and  soon  recovered 
her  usual  appearance.  A  change  of  work,  she  always  said, 
was  the  best  restorative.  But  before  a  month  was  over  I  suc¬ 
ceeded  in  persuading  her  to  accept  my  mother’s  invitation  to 
spend  a  week  at  the  Hall,  and  from  this  visit  she  returned 
quite  invigorated.  Connie,  whom  she  went  to  see — for  by  this 
time  she  was  married  to  Mr.  Turner — was  especially  delighted 
with  her  delight  in  the  simplicities  of  nature.  Born  and  bred 
in  the  closest  town-environment,  she  had  yet  a  sensitiveness  to 
all  that  made  the  country  so  dear  to  us  who  were  born  in  it, 
which  Connie  said  surpassed  ours,  and  gave  her  special  satis¬ 
faction  as  proving  that  my  oft-recurring  dread  lest  such  feelings 
might  be  but  the  result  of  childish  associations,  was  groundless, 
and  that  they  were  essential  to  the  human  nature,  and  so  must  be 
felt  by  God  himself.  Driving  along  in  the  pony-carriage— for 
Connie  is  not  able  to  walk  much — Marion  would  remark  upon 
ten  things  in  a  morning  that  my  sister  had  never  observed.  The 
various  effects  of  light  and  shade,  and  the  variety  of  feeling  they 
caused,  especially  interested  her.  She  would  spy  out  a  lurking 
sunbeam,  as  another  would  find  a  hidden  flower.  It  seemed  as  li 
not  a  glitter  in  its  nest  of  gloom  could  escape  her.  She  would 
leave  the  carriage  and  make  a  long  round  through  the  fields 
or  woods ;  and  when  they  met  at  the  appointed  spot,  would 
have  her  hands  full,  not  of  flowers  only,  but  of  leaves  and 
grasses  and  weedy  things,  showing  the  deepest  interest  in  such 
lowly  forms  as  few  would  notice  except  from  a  scientific  know¬ 
ledge  of  which  she  had  none  :  it  was  the  thing  itself — its  look 
and  its  home  that  drew  her  attention.  I  cannot  help  thinking 
that  this  insight  was  profoundly  one  with  her  interest  in  the 
corresponding  regions  of  human  life  and  circumstance. 


Miss  Clare  amongst  her  Friends . 


217 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

MISS  CLARE  AMONGST  HER  FRIENDS. 

I  must  give  an  instance  of  the  way  in  which  Marion — I  am 
tired  of  calling  her  Miss  Clare ,  and  about  this  time  I  began 
to  drop  it — exercised  her  influence  over  her  friends.  I  trust 
the  episode,  in  a  story  so  fragmentary  as  mine,  made  up  of 
pieces  only  of  a  quiet  and  ordinary  life,  will  not  seem  unsuitable. 
How  I  wish  I  could  give  it  you  as  she  told  it  to  me  ! — so 
graphic  was  her  narrative,  and  so  true  to  the  forms  of  speech 
amongst  the  London  poor.  I  must  do  what  I  can,  well  assured 
it  must  come  far  short  of  the  original  representation. 

One  evening,  as  she  was  walking  up  to  her  attic,  she  heard  a 
noise  in  one  of  the  rooms,  followed  by  a  sound  of  weeping.  It 
was  occupied  by  a  journeyman  house- painter  and  his  wife,  who 
had  been  married  several  years,  but  whose  only  child  had  died 
about  six  months  before,  since  which  loss  things  had  not  been 
going  on  so  well  between  them.  Some  natures  cannot  bear 
sorrow ;  it  makes  them  irritable,  and  instead  of  drawing  them 
closer  to  their  own,  tends  to  isolate  them.  When  she  entered, 
she  found  the  woman  crying,  and  the  man  in  a  lurid  sulk. 

“  What  is  the  matter  ?  ”  she  asked,  no  doubt  in  her  usual 
cheerful  tone. 

“  I  little  thought  it  would  come  to  this  when  I  married  him,” 
sobbed  the  woman,  while  the  man  remained  motionless  and 
speechless  on  his  chair,  with  his  legs  stretched  out  at  full  length 
before  him. 

“  Would  you  mind  telling  me  about  it  ?  There  may  be  some 
mistake,  you  know.” 

“There  ain’t  no  mistake  in  that”  said  the  woman,  removing 
the  apron  she  had  been  holding  to  her  eyes,  and  turning  a  cheek 
towards  Marion,  upon  which  the  marks  of  an  open-handed  blow' 


2iS  The  Vicars  Daughter* 

were  visible  enough.  I  didn’t  marry  him  to  be  knocked  about 
like  that.” 

“She  calls  that  knocking  about,  do  she?”  growled  the  hus¬ 
band.  “What  did  she  go  for  to  throw  her  cotton  gownd  in  my 
teeth  for,  as  if  it  was  my  blame  she  warn’t  in  silks  and 
satins?” 

After  a  good  deal  of  questioning  on  her  part,  and  confused 
and  recriminative  statements  on  theirs,  Marion  made  out  the 
following  as  the  facts  of  the  case. 

For  the  first  time  since  they  were  married,  the  wife  had  had 
an  invitation  to  spend  the  evening  with  some  female  friends. 
The  party  had  taken  place  the  night  before,  and  although 
she  had  returned  in  ill-humour,  it  had  not  broken  out  until 
just  as  Marion  entered  the  house.  The  cause  was  this  :  none 
of  the  guests  were  in  a  station  much  superior  to  her  own,  yet  she 
found  herself  the  only  one  who  had  not  a  silk  dress  :  hers  was  a 
print,  and  shabby.  Now  when  she  was  married,  she  had  a  silk 
dress,  of  which,  she  said,  her  husband  had  been  proud  enough 
when  they  were  walking  together.  But  when  she  saw  the  last  of 
it,  she  saw  the  last  of  its  sort,  for  never  another  had  he  given 
her  to  her  back ;  and  she  didn’t  marry  him  to  come  down  in 
the  world — that  she  didn’t ! 

“  Of  course  not,”  said  Marion  ;  “  you  married  him  because 
you  loved  him,  and  thought  him  the  finest  fellow  you  knew.” 

“And  so  he  was  then,  grannie.  But  just  look  at  him  now!” 

The  man  moved  uneasily,  but  without  bending  his  out¬ 
stretched  legs.  The  fact  was  that  since  the  death  of  the  child 
he  had  so  far  taken  to  drink  that  he  was  not  unfrequently  the 
worse  for  it,  which  had  been  a  rare  occurrence  before. 

“  It  ain’t  my  fault,”  he  said,  “  when  work  ain’t  a-goin’,  if  I  don’t 
dress  her  like  a  duchess.  I’m  as  proud  to  see  my  wife  rigged  out 
as  e’er  a  man  on  ’em — and  that  she  know !  and  when  she  cast  the 
contrairy  up  to  me,  I’m  bio  wed  if  I  could  keep  my  hands  off  on 
her.  She  ain’t  the  woman  I  took  her  for,  miss.  She  'ave  a 
temper!  ” 

“  I  don’t  doubt  it,”  said  Marion.  “  Temper  is  a  troublesome 


219 


Miss  Clare  amongst  her  Friends . 

thing  with  all  of  us,  and  makes  us  do  things  we’re  sorry  for 
afterwards.  You' re  sorry  for  striking  her — ain’t  you  now  ?” 

There  was  no  response.  Around  the  sullen  heart,  silence 
closed  again.  Doubtless  he  would  have  given  much  to 
obliterate  the  fact,  but  he  would  not  confess  that  he  had  been 
wrong.  We  are  so  stupid  that  confession  seems  to  us  to  fix  the 
wrong  upon  us,  instead  of  throwing  it,  as  it  does,  into  the 
depths  of  the  sea. 

“  I  may  have  my  temper,”  said  the  woman,  a  little  molli¬ 
fied  at  finding,  as  she  thought,  that  Miss  Clare  took  her 
part,  “  but  here  am  I  slaving  from  morning  to  night  to  make 
both  ends  meet,  and  goin’  out  every  job  I  can  get  a-washin’ 
or  a-charin’,  and  never  ’avin’  a  bit  of  fun  from  year’s  end  to 
year’s  end — and  him  off  to  his  club,  as  he  calls  it  ! — an’  it’s  a 
club  he’s  like  to  blow  out  my  brains  with  some  night  when  he 
come  home  in  a  drunken  fit ;  for  it’s  worse  and  worse  he’ll  get, 
miss,  like  the  rest  on  ’em,  till  no  woman  could  be  proud,  as  once 
I  was,  to  call  him  hers.  And  when  I  do  go  out  to  tea  for  once 
in  a  way,  to  be  jeered  at  by  them  as  is  no  better  nor  no  worse’n 
myself,  acause  I  ’ain’t  got  a  husband  as  cares  enough  for  me 
to  dress  me  decent ! — that  do  stick  i’  my  gizzard.  I  do  dearly 
love  to  have  neighbours  think  my  husband  care  a  bit  about  me, 
let-a-be  ’at  he  don’t,  one  hair ;  and  when  he  send  me  out  like 
that — ” 

Here  she  broke  down  afresh. 

“  Why  didn’t  ye  stop  at  home  then  ?  I  didn’t  tell  ye  to  go,” 
he  said  fiercely,  calling  her  a  coarse  name. 

“  Richard,”  said  Marion,  “  such  words  are  not  fit  for  me  to 
hear  — still  less  for  your  own  wife.” 

“  Oh  !  never  mind  me  3  I’m  used  to  sich,”  said  the  woman 
spitefully. 

“  It’s  a  lie,”  roared  the  man 3  “  I  never  named  sich  a  word  to 
ye  afore.  It  do  make  me  mad  to  hear  ye.  I  drink  the  clothes 
off  your  back — do  I  ?  If  I  hed  the  money,  ye  might  go  in 
velvet  and  lace  for  ought  I  cared  !  ” 


220 


The  Vicar's  Daughter. 

“  She  would  care  little  to  go  in  gold  and 
didn't  care  to  see  her  in  them,”  said  Marion. 

At  this  the  woman  burst  into  fresh  tears,  and  the  man  put  on 
a  face  of  contempt— the  worst  sign,  Marion  said,  she  had  yet 
seen  in  him — not  excepting  the  blow — for  to  despise  is  worse 
than  to  strike. 

I  can’t  help  stopping  my  story  here  to  put  in  a  reflection  that 
forces  itself  upon  me.  Many  a  man  would  regard  with  disgust 
the  idea  of  striking  his  wife,  who  will  yet  cherish  against  her  an 
aversion  which  is  infinitely  worse.  The  working  man  who 
strikes  his  wife,  but  is  sorry  for  it,  and  tries  to  make  amends 
by  being  more  tender  after  it — a  result  which  many  a  woman 
will  consider  cheap  at  the  price  of  a  blow  endured — is  an 
immeasurably  superior  husband  to  the  gentleman  who  shows 
his  wife  the  most  absolute  politeness,  but  uses  that  very 
politeness  as  a  breastwork  to  fortify  himself  in  his  disregard 
and  contempt. 

Marion  saw  that  while  the  tides  ran  thus  high,  nothing 
could  be  done — certainly  at  least  in  the  way  of  argument. 
Whether  the  man  had  been  drinking  she  could  not  tell,  but 
suspected  that  must  have  a  share  in  the  evil  of  his  mood.  She 
went  up  to  him,  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  said— 

“You’re  out  of  sorts,  Richard.  Come  and  have  a  cup  of 
tea,  and  I  will  sing  to  you.” 

“  I  don’t  want  no  tea.” 

“  You’re  fond  of  the  piano,  though.  And  you  like  to  hear 
me  sing,  don’t  you  ?  ” 

“  Well,  I  do,”  he  muttered,  as  if  the  admission  were  forced 
from  him. 

“Come  with  me,  then.” 

He  dragged  himself  up  from  his  chair,  and  was  about  to 
follow  her. 

“  You  ain’t  going  to  take  him  from  me,  grannie,  after  he’s 
been  and  struck  me  ?  ”  interposed  his  wife,  in  a  tone  half 
pathetic,  half  injured. 


221 


Hss  Clare  amongst  her  1'/ tends. 

“  Come  after  us  in  a  few  minutes,”  said  Marion  in  a  low  voice, 
and  led  the  way  from  the  room. 

Quiet  as  a  lamb  Richard  followed  her  up  stairs.  She  made 
him  sit  in  the  easy-chair,  and  began  with  a  low  plaintive  song, 
which  she  followed  with  other  songs  and  music  of  a  similar 
character.  He  neither  heard  nor  saw  his  wife  enter,  and  both 
sat  for  about  twenty  minutes  without  a  word  spoken.  Then 
Marion  made  a  pause,  and  the  wife  rose  and  approached  her 
husband.  He  was  fast  asleep. 

“Don’t  wake  him,”  said  Marion;  “  let  him  have  his  sleep 
out.  You  go  down  and  get  the  place  tidy,  and  a  nice  bit  of 
supper  for  him — if  you  can.” 

“  Oh  !  yes;  he  brought  me  home  his  week’s  wages  this  very 
light.” 

“  The  whole  ?  ” 

“Yes,  grannie.” 

“  Then  weren’t  you  too  hard  upon  him  ?  Just  think  : — he 
had  been  trying  to  behave  himself,  and  had  got  the  better  of 
the  public-house  for  once,  and  come  home  fancying  you’d  be 
so  pleased  to  see  him ;  and  you — ” 

“  He’d  been  drinking,”  interrupted  Eliza.  “  Only  he  said  as 
how  it  was  but  a  pot  of  beer  he’d  won  in  a  wager  horn  a  mate 
of  his.” 

“  Well,  if,  after  that  beginning,  he  yet  brought  you  home  his 
money,  he  ought  to  have  had  another  kind  of  reception.  To 
think  of  the  wife  of  a  poor  man  making  such  a  fuss  about  a  silk 
dress  !  Why,  Eliza,  I  never  had  a  silk  dress  in  my  life  ;  and  I 
don’t  think  I  ever  shall.” 

“  Laws,  grannie  !  Who’d  ha’  thought  that  now  !  ” 

“  You  see  I  have  other  uses  for  my  money  than  buying  things 
for  show.” 

“  That  you  do,  grannie !  But  you  see,”  she  added,  somewhat 
inconsequently,  “we  ’ain’t  got  no  child,  and  Dick  he  take  it  ill 
of  me,  and  don’t  care  to  save  his  money  ;  so  he  never  takes  me 
out  nowheres,  and  I  do  be  so  tired  o’  stoppin’  indoors,  every 
day  and  all  day  long,  that  it  turns  me  sour,  I  do  believe.  I 


I 


222  The  Vicar  s  Daughter . 

didn’t  use  to  be  cross-grained,  miss.  But  laws  !  I  feels  now  as 
if  I’d  let  him  knock  me  about  ever  so,  if  only  he  wouldn’t  say 
as  how  it  was  nothing  to  him  if  I  was  dressed  ever  so  fine.” 

“You  run  and  get  his  supper.” 

Eliza  went,  and  Marion,  sitting  down  again  to  her  in¬ 
strument,  improvised  for  an  hour.  Next  to  her  New  Testa¬ 
ment,  this  was  her  greatest  comfort.  She  sung  and  prayed 
both  in  one  then,  and  nobody  but  God  heard  anything  but  the 
piano.  Nor  did  it  impede  the  flow  of  her  best  thoughts  that 
in  a  chair  beside  her  slumbered  a  weary  man,  the  waves  of 
whose  evil  passions  she  had  stilled,  and  the  sting  of  whose 
disappointment  she  had  soothed,  with  the  sweet  airs  and  con¬ 
cords  of  her  own  spirit.  Who  could  say  what  tender  influences 
might  not  be  stealing  over  him,  borne  on  the  fair  sounds ;  for 
even  the  formless  and  the  void  was  roused  into  life  and  joy  by 
the  wind  that  roamed  over  the  face  of  its  deep?  No  humanity 
jarred  with  hers.  In  the  presence  of  the  most  degraded,  she 
felt  God  there.  A  face,  even  if  besotted,  was  a  face  only  in 
virtue  of  being  in  the  image  of  God.  That  a  man  was  a  man 
at  all,  must  be  because  he  was  God’s.  And  this  man  was  far 
indeed  from  being  of  the  worst.  With  him  beside  her,  she  could 
pray  with  most  of  the  good  of  having  the  door  of  her  closet 
shut,  and  some  of  the  good  of  the  gathering  together  as  well. 
Thus  was  love,  as  ever,  the  assimilator  of  the  foreign,  the  har- 
monizer  of  the  unlike ;  the  builder  of  the  temple  in  the  desert, 
and  of  the  chamber  in  the  market-place. 

As  she  sat  and  discoursed  with  herself,  she  perceived  that 
the  woman  was  as  certainly  suffering  from  ennui  as  any  fine  lady 
in  Mayfair. 

“Have  you  ever  been  to  the  National  Gallery,  Richard?” 
she  asked,  without  turning  her  head,  the  moment  she  heard  him 
move. 

“  No,  grannie,”  he  answered  with  a  yawn.  “  Don’a’most 
know  what  sort  of  a  place  it  be  now.  Waxwork,  ain’t  it?  ” 

“  No.  It’s  a  great  place  full  of  pictures,  many  of  them  hun¬ 
dreds  of  years  old.  They’re  taken  care  of  by  the  government, 


Miss  Clare  amongst  her  Friends ,  225 

just  for  people  to  go  and  look  at.  Wouldn’t  you  like  to  go  and 
see  them  some  day  ?  ” 

Donno  as  I  should  much.” 

“  If  I  were  to  go  with  you  now,  and  explain  some  of  them 
to  you  ?  I  want  you  to  take  your  wife  and  me  out  for  a 
holiday.  You  can’t  think,  you  who  go  out  to  your  work  every 
day,  how  tiresome  it  is  to  be  in  the  house  from  morning  to 
night,  especially  at  this  time  of  the  year  when  the  sun’s  shining, 
and  the  very  sparrows  trying  to  sing  !  ” 

“  She  may  go  out  when  she  pleases,  grannie.  I  ain’t  no 
tyrant.” 

“  But  she  doesn’t  care  to  go  without  you.  You  wouldn’t  have 
her  like  one  of  those  slatternly  women  you  see  standing  at 
the  corners,  with  their  fists  in  their  sides  and  their  elbows 
sticking  out,  ready  to  talk  to  anybody  that  comes  in  the  way.” 

“  My  wife  was  never  none  o’  sich,  grannie.  I  knows  her  as 
well’s  e’er  a  one,  though  she  do  ’ave  a  temper  of  her  own.” 

At  this  moment  Eliza  appeared  in  the  doorway,  saying — 

“  Will  ye  come  to  yer  supper,  Dick  ?  I  ha’  got  a  slice  o’  ham 
an’  a  hot  tater  for  ye.  Come  along.” 

“  Well,  I  don’t  know  as  I  mind — jest  to  please  you,  Liza.  I 
believe  I  ha’  been  asleep  in  grannie’s  cheer  there,  her  a  playin’ 
an’  a  singin’,  I  make  no  doubt,  like  a  werry  nightingerl,  bless 
her,  an’  me  a  snorin’  all  to  myself,  like  a  runaway  locomotive  ! 
Won’t  you  come  and  have  a  slice  o’  the  ’am,  an’  a  tater, 
grannie  ?  The  more  you  ate,  the  less  we’d  grudge  it.” 

“  I’m  sure  o’  that,”  chimed  in  Eliza.  “  Do  now,  grannie  ; 
please  do.” 

“  I  will,  with  pleasure,”  said  Marion ;  and  they  went  down 
together. 

Eliza  had  got  the  table  set  out  nicely,  with  a  foaming  jug  of 
porter  beside  the  ham  and  potatoes.  Before  they  had  finished, 
Marion  had  persuaded  Richard  to  take  his  wife  and  her  to  the 
National  Gallery,  the  next  day  but  one,  which,  fortunately  for 
her  purpose,  was  Whit  Monday,  a  day  whereon  Richard,  who 
was  from  the  north,  always  took  a  holiday. 


224 


7 he  Vicar's  Daughter . 

At  theNational  Gallery,  the  house-painter,  in  virtue  of  his  craft, 
claimed  the  exercise  of  criticism,  and  his  remarks  were  amusing 
enough.  He  had  more  than  once  painted  a  sign-board  for  a 
country  inn,  which  fact  formed  a  bridge  between  the  covering  of 
square  yards  with  colour  and  the  paint. ng  of  pictures  ;  and  he 
naturally  used  the  vantage-ground  thus  gained  to  enhance  his 
importance  with  his  wife  and  Miss  Clare.  He  was  rather  a  clever 
fellow,  too,  though  as  little  educated  in  any  other  direction  than 
that  of  his  calling  as  might  well  be. 

All  the  woman  seemed  to  care  about  in  the  pictures,  was  this 
or  that  something  which  reminded  her,  often  remotely  enough  I 
dare  say,  of  her  former  life  in  the  country.  Towards  the  close 
of  their  visit  they  approached  a  picture — one  of  Hobbima’s,  I 
think — which  at  once  riveted  her  attention. 

“  Look,  look,  Dick  !  ”  she  cried.  “  There’s  just  such  a  cart 
as  my  father  used  to  drive  to  the  town  in.  Farmer  White  always 
sent  him  when  the  mistress  wanted  anything  and  he  didn’t  care 
to  go  hisself.  And,  oh  Dick  !  there’s  the  very  moral  of  the 
cottage  we  lived  in  !  Ain’t  it  a  love  now  ?” 

“  Nice  enough,”  Dick  replied.  “But  it  warn’t  there  I  seed, 
you,  Liza.  It  wur  at  the  big  house  where  you  was  housemaid, 
you  know.  That’ll  be  it,  I  suppose — away  there  like,  over  the 
trees.” 

They  turned  and  looked  at  each  other,  and  Marion  turned 
away.  When  she  looked  again,  they  were  once  more  gazing  at 
the  picture,  but  close  together,  and  hand  in  hand  like  two 
children. 

As  they  went  home  in  the  omnibus,  the  two  averred  they  had 
never  spent  a  happier  holiday  in  their  lives ;  and  from  that  day 
to  this,  no  sign  of  their  quarrelling  has  come  to  Marion’s 
knowledge.  They  are  not  only  her  regular  attendants  on 
Saturday  evenings,  but  on  Sunday  evenings  as  well,  when  she 
holds  a  sort  of  conversation-sermon  with  her  friends. 


s 


Mr,  Morley . 


225 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

MR.  MORLEY. 

As  soon  as  my  cousin  Judy  returned  from  Hastings,  I  called  to 
see  her,  and  found  them  all  restored,  except  Amy,  a  child  of 
between  eight  and  nine.  There  was  nothing  very  definite  the 
matter  with  her,  but  she  was  white  and  thin,  and  looked  wist¬ 
ful  ;  the  blue  of  her  eyes  had  grown  pale,  and  her  fair  locks  had 
nearly  lost  the  curl  which  had  so  well  suited  her  rosy  cheeks. 
She  had  been  her  father’s  pride  for  her  looks,  and  her 
mother’s  for  her  sayings — at  once  odd  and  simple.  Judy  that 
morning  reminded  me  how,  one  night,  when  she  was  about 
three  years  old,  some  time  after  she  had  gone  to  bed,  she  had 
called  her  nurse,  and  insisted  on  her  mother’s  coming.  Judy 
went,  prepared  to  find  her  feverish  ;  for  there  had  been  jam¬ 
making  that  day,  and  she  feared  she  had  been  having  more  than 
the  portion  which  on  such  an  occasion  fell  to  her  share.  When 
she  reached  the  nursery,  Amy  begged  to  be  taken  up  that  she 
might  say  her  prayers  over  again.  Her  mother  objected,  but  . 
the  child  insisting,  in  that  pretty  petulant  way  which  so  pleased 
her  father,  she  yielded,  thinking  she  must  have  omitted  some 
clause  in  her  prayers,  and  be  therefore  troubled  in  her  con¬ 
science.  Amy  accordingly  kneeled  by  the  bed-side  in  her 
night-gown,  and  having  gone  over  all  her  petitions  from 
beginning  to  end,  paused  a  moment  before  the  final  word, 
and  inserted  the  following  special  and  peculiar  request  : — 

“  And,  p’ease  God,  give  me  some  more  jam  to-morrow-day, 
for  ever  and  ever.  Amen.” 

I  remember  my  father  being  quite  troubled  when  he  heard 
that  the  child  had  been  rebuked  for  offering  what  was  probably 
her  very  first  genuine  prayer.  The  rebuke  however  had  little 

Q 


226  The  Vicars  Daughter. 

effect  on  the  equanimity  of  the  petitioner,  for  she  was  fast  asleep 
a  moment  after  it. 

“  There  is  one  thing  that  puzzles  and  annoys  me,”  said 
Judy.  u  I  can’t  think  what  it  means.  My  husband  tells  me 
that  Miss  Clare  was  so  rude  to  him  the  day  before  we  left  for 
Hastings,  that  he  would  rather  not  be  aware  of  it  any  time  she 
is  in  the  house.  Those  were  his  very  words.  ‘  I  will  not  in¬ 
terfere  with  your  doing  as  you  think  proper/  he  said,  ‘  seeing 
you  consider  yourself  under  such  obligation  to  her  ;  and  I 
should  be  sorry  to  deprive  her  of  the  advantage  of  giving 
lessons  in  a  house  like  this  ;  but  I  wish  you  to  be  careful  that 
the  girls  do  not  copy  her  manners.  She  has  not  by  any  means 
escaped  the  influence  of  the  company  she  keeps.’  I  was  utterly 
astonished,  you  may  well  think ;  but  I  could  get  no  further  ex¬ 
planation  from  him.  He  only  said  that  when  I  wished  to  have 
her  society  of  an  evening,  I  must  let  him  know,  because  he 
would  then  dine  at  his  club.  Not  knowing  the  grounds  of  his 
offence,  there  was  little  other  argument  I  could  use  than  the 
reiteration  of  my  certainty  that  he  must  have  misunderstood  her. 
*  Not  in  the  least,’  he  said.  ‘  I  have  no  doubt  she  is  to  you 
everything  amiable,  but  she  has  taken  some  unaccountable 
aversion  to  me,  and  loses  no  opportunity  of  showing  it.  And  I 
don't  think  I  deserve  it.’  I  told  him  I  was  so  sure  he  did  not 
deserve  it,  that  I  must  believe  there  was  some  mistake.  But  he 
only  shook  his  head  and  raised  his  newspaper.  You  must  help 
me,  little  coz.” 

“  How  am  I  to  help  you,  Judy  dear  ?”  I  returned.  “  I  can’t 
interfere  between  husband  and  wife,  you  know.  If  I  dared  such 
a  thing,  he  would  quarrel  with  me  too — and  rightly.” 

“  No,  no,”  she  returned,  laughing;  “  I  don’t  want  your  inter¬ 
cession.  I  only  want  you  to  find  out  from  Miss  Clare  whether 
she  knows  how  she  has  so  mortally  offended  my  husband.  I 
believe  she  knows  nothing  about  it.  She  has  a  rather  abrupt 
maimer  sometimes,  you  know;  but  then  my  husband  is  not  so 
silly  as  to  have  taken  such  deep  offence  at  that.  Help  me 
now — there’s  a  dear  !  ” 


Mr.  Morley. 


227 


I  promised  I  would,  and  hence  came  the  story  I  have  already 
given.  But  Marion  was  so  distressed  at  the  result  of  her  words, 
and  so  anxious  that  Judy  should  not  be  hurt,  that  she  begged 
me,  if  I  could  manage  it  without  a  breach  of  verity,  to  avoid  dis¬ 
closing  the  matter;  especially  seeing  Mr.  Morley  himself  judged 
it  too  heinous  to  impart  to  his  wife. 

How  to  manage  it  I  could  not  think.  But  at  length  we 
arranged  it  between  us.  I  told  Judy  that  Marion  confessed  to 
having  said  something  which  had  offended  Mr.  Morley  ;  that 
she  was  very  sorry,  and  hoped  she  need  not  say  that  such  had 
not  been  her  intention  ;  but  that,  as  Mr.  Morley  evidently  pre¬ 
ferred  what  had  passed  between  them  to  remain  unmentioned, 
to  disclose  it  would  be  merely  to  swell  the  mischief.  It  would 
be  better  for  them  all,  she  requested  me  to  say,  that  she  should 
give  up  her  lessons  for  the  present ;  and  therefore  she  hoped 
Mrs.  Morley  would  excuse  her.  When  I  gave  the  message 
Judy  cried,  and  said  nothing.  When  the  children  heard  that 
Marion  was  not  coming  for  a  while,  Amy  cried,  the  other  girls 
looked  very  grave,  and  the  boys  protested. 

I  have  already  mentioned  that  the  fault  I  most  disliked  in 
those  children  was  their  incapacity  for  being  petted.  Some¬ 
thing  of  it  still  remains,  but  of  late  I  have  remarked  a  con¬ 
siderable  improvement  in  this  respect.  They  have  not  only 
grown  in  kindness,  but  in  the  gift  of  receiving  kindness.  I 
'cannot  but  attribute  this,  in  chief  measure,  to  their  illness  and 
the  lovely  nursing  of  Marion.  They  do  not  yet  go  to  their 
mother  for  petting,  and  from  myself  will  only  endure  it,  but 
they  are  eager  after  such  crumbs  as  Marion,  by  no  means 
lavish  of  it,  will  vouchsafe  them. 

Judy  insisted  that  I  should  let  Mr.  Morley  hear  Marion’s 
message. 

“  But  the  message  is  not  to  Mr.  Morley,”  I  said.  “  Marion 
would  never  have  thought  of  sending  one  to  him.” 

“  But  if  I  ask  you  to  repeat  it  in  his  hearing,  you  will  not 
refuse  ?  ” 

To  this  I  consented ;  but  I  fear  she  was  disappointed 

q  2 


223 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter , 

in  the  result.  Her  husband  only  smiled  sarcastically,  drew  in 
his  chin,  and  showed  himself  a  little  more  cheerful  than 
usual. 

One  morning  about  two  months  after,  as  I  was  sitting  in  the 
drawing-room,  with  my  baby  on  the  floor  beside  me,  I  was 
surprised  to  see  Judy’s  brougham  pull  up  at  the  little  gate — 
for  it  was  early.  When  she  got  out,  I  perceived  at  once  that 
something  was  amiss,  and  ran  to  open  the  door.  Her  eyes 
were  red,  and  her  cheeks  ashy.  The  moment  we  reached  the 
drawing-room,  she  sunk  on  the  couch  and  burst  into  tears. 

“  J udy  !  ”  I  cried,  “  what  is  the  matter  ?  Is  Amy  worse  ?  ” 

“  No,  no,  cozzydear;  but  we  are  ruined.  We  haven’t  a 
penny  in  the  world.  The'children  will  be  beggars.” 

And  there  were  the  gay  little  horses  champing  their  bits  at 
the  door,  and  the  coachman  sitting  in  all  his  glory,  erect  and 
impassive 

I  did  my  best  to  quiet  her,  urging  no  questions.  With 
difficulty  I  got  her  to  swallow  a  glass  of  wine,  after  which,  with 
many  interruptions  and  fresh  outbursts  of  misery,  she  managed 
to  let  me  understand  that  her  husband  had  been  speculating, 
and  had  failed.  I  could  hardly  believe  myself  awake.  Mi. 
Morley  was  the  last  man  I  should  have  thought  capable  either 
of  speculating,  or  of  failing  in  it  if  he  did. 

Knowing  nothing  about  business,  I  shall  not  attempt  to  ex¬ 
plain  the  particulars.  Coincident  failures  amongst  his  corre¬ 
spondents  had  contributed  to  his  fall.  Judy  said  he  had  not 
been  like  himself  for  months,  but  it  was  only  the  night  before  that 
he  had  told  her  they  must  give  up  their  house  in  Bolivar  Square, 
and  take  a  small  one  in  the  suburbs.  For  anything  he  could 
see,  he  said,  he  must  look  out  for  a  situation. 

“Still  you  may  be  happier  than  ever,  Judy.  I  can  tell  you 
that  happiness  does  not  depend  on  riches,”  I  said,  though  I 
could  not  help  crying  with  her. 

“  It’s  a  different  thing  though,  after  you’ve  been  used  to 
them,”  she  answered.  “  But  the  question  is  of  bread  for  my 
children,  not  of  putting  down  my  carriage.” 


Mr.  M or  ley* 


229 


She  rose  hurriedly. 

“  Where  are  you  going  ?  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for 
you  ?  ”  I  asked. 

“  Nothing,”  she  answered.  “  I  left  my  husband  at  Mr. 
Baddeley’s.  He  is  as  rich  as  Croesus,  and  could  write  him  a 
cheque  that  would  float  him.” 

“  He’s  too  rich  to  be  generous,  I’m  afraid,”  I  said. 

“  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  ”  she  asked. 

“  If  he  be  so  generous,  how  does  it  come  that  he  is  so  rich  ?  ” 

“  Why,  his  father  made  the  money.” 

“  Then  he  most  likely  takes  after  his  father.  Percivale  says 
he  does  not  believe  a  huge  fortune  was  ever  made  of  nothing 
without  such  pinching  of  one’s  self  and  such  scraping  of  others, 
or  else  such  speculation,  as  is  essentially  dishonourable.” 

“  He  stands  high,”  murmured  Judy  hopelessly. 

“  Whether  what  is  dishonourable  be  also  disreputable  depends 
on  how  many  there  are  of  his  own  sort  in  the  society  in  which 
he  moves.” 

“  Now,  coz,  you  know  nothing  to  his  discredit,  and  he’s  our 
last  hope.” 

“  I  will  say  no  more,”  I  answered.  “  I  hope  I  may  be  quite 
wrong.  Only  I  should  expect  nothing  of  him.” 

When  she  reached  Mr.  Baddeley’s,  her  husband  was  gone. 
Having  driven  to  his  counting-house,  and  been  shown  into  his 
private  room,  she  found  him  there  with  his  head  between  his 
hands.  The  great  man  had  declined  doing  anything  for  him, 
and  had  even  rebuked  him  for  his  imprudence,  without  wasting 
a  thought  on  the  fact  that  every  penny  he  himself  possessed 
was  the  result  of  the  boldest  speculation  on  the  part  of  his 
father.  A  very  few  days  only  would  elapse  before  the  falling 
due  of  certain  bills  must  at  once  disclose  the  state  of  his  affairs. 

As  soon  as  she  had  left  me,  Percivale  not  being  at  home,  I 
put  on  my  bonnet,  and  went  to  find  Marion.  I  must  tell 
her  everything  tl;  at  caused  me  either  joy  or  sorrow  ;  and  besides, 
she  had  all  the  right  that  love  could  give  to  know  of  Judy's 
distress.  I  knew  all  her  engagements,  and  therefore  where 


23  O 


The  Vicars  Daughter . 

o 

to  find  her  ;  and  sent  in  my  card,  with  the  pencilled  intimation 
that  I  would  wait  the  close  of  her  lesson.  In  a  few  minutes  she 
came  out  and  got  into  the  cab.  At  once  I  told  her  my  sad 
news. 

“  Could  you  take  me  to  Cambridge  Square  to  my  next  en¬ 
gagement  ?  ”  she  said. 

I  was  considerably  surprised  at  the  cool  way  in  which  she 
received  the  communication,  but  of  course  I  gave  the  necessary 
directions. 

“  Is  there  anything  to  be  done  ?  ”  she  asked,  after  a  pause. 

“  I  know  of  nothing,”  I  answered. 

Again  she  sat  silent  for  a  few  minutes. 

“  One  can’t  move  without  knowing  all  the  circumstances  and 
particulars,”  she  said  at  length.  “And  how  to  get  at  them  ? 
He  wouldn’t  make  a  confidante  of  me?  she  said,  smiling  sadly. 

“  Ah  !  you  little  think  what  vast  sums  are  concerned  in  such 
a  failure  as  his  !  ”  I  remarked,  astounded  that  one  with  her 
knowledge  of  the  world  should  talk  as  she  did. 

“  It  will  be  best,”  she  said,  after  still  another  pause,  “  to  go 
to  Mr.  Blackstone.  He  has  a  wonderful  acquaintance  with 
business  for  a  clergyman,  and  knows  many  of  the  City  people.” 

“  What  could  any  clergyman  do  in  such  a  case  ?  ”  I  returned. 
“  For  Mr.  Blackstone,  Mr.  Morley  would  not  accept  even  con¬ 
solation  at  his  hands.” 

“  The  time  for  that  is  not  come  yet,”  said  Marion.  “  We 
must  try  to  help  him  some  other  way  first.  We  will,  if  we  can, 
make  friends  with  him  by  means  of  the  very  Mammon  that 
has  all  but  ruined  him.” 

She  spoke  of  the  great  merchant  just  as  she  might  of  Richard, 
or  any  of  the  bricklayers  or  mechanics  whose  spiritual  condition 
she  pondered  that  she  might  aid  it. 

“  But  what  could  Mr.  Blackstone  do  ?  ”  I  insisted. 

“  All  I  should  want  of  him  would  be  to  find  out  for  me  what 
Mr.  Morley’s  liabilities  are,  and  how  much  would  serve  to  tide 
him  over  the  bar  of  h:s  present  difficulties.  I  suspect  he  has 
few  friends  who  would  risk  anything  for  him.  I  understand 


231 


Mr.  M or  ley, 

he  is  no  favourite  in  the  City;  and  if  friendship  do  not  come 
in,  he  must  be  stranded. — You  believe  him  an  honourable  man 
— do  you  not  ?  ”  she  asked  abruptly. 

“It  never  entered  my  head  to  doubt  it,”  I  replied. 

The  moment  we  reached  Cambridge  Square  she  jumped  out, 
ran  up  the  steps,  and  knocked  at  the  door.  I  waited,  wonder¬ 
ing  if  she  was  going  to  leave  me  thus  without  a  farewell. 
When  the  door  was  opened,  she  merely  gave  a  message  to  the 
man,  and  the  same  instant  was  again  in  the  cab  by  my  side. 

“Now  I  am  free  !  ”  she  said,  and  told  the  man  to  drive  to 
Mile  End. 

“  I  fear  I  can’t  go  with  you  so  far,  Marion,”  I  said.  “  I 
must  go  home — I  have  so  much  to  see  to,  and  you  can  do 
quite  as  well  without  me.  I  don’t  know  what  you  intend,  but 
please  don’t  let  anything  come  out.  I  can  trust  you,  but — ” 

“  If  you  can  trust  me,  I  can  trust  Mr.  Blackstone.  He  is 
the  most  cautious  man  in  the  world.  Shall  I  get  out  and  take 
another  cab  ?  ” 

“  No.  You  can  drop  me  at  Tottenham  Court  Road,  and  I 
will  go  home  by  omnibus.  But  you  must  let  me  pay  the  cab.” 

“  No,  no  ;  I  am  richer  than  you  :  1  have  no  children.  What 
fun  it  is  to  spend  money  for  Mr.  Morley,  and  lay  him  under 
an  obligation  he  will  never  know  !  ”  she  said,  laughing. 

The  result  of  her  endeavours  was  that  Mr.  Blackstone,  by  a 
circuitous  succession  of  introductions,  reached  Mr.  Morley’s 
confidential  clerk,  whom  he  was  able  so  far  to  satisfy  concerning 
his  object  in  desiring  the  information,  that  he  made  him  a  full 
disclosure  of  the  condition  of  affairs,  and  stated  what  sum  would 
be  sufficient  to  carry  them  over  their  difficulties  ;  though,  he 
added,  the  greatest  care,  and  every  possible  reduction  of  ex¬ 
penditure  for  some  years,  would  be  indispensable  to  their 
complete  restoration. 

Mr.  Blackstone  carried  his  discoveries  to  Miss  Clare,  and 
she  to  Lady  Bernard. 

“  My  d?ar  Marion,”  said  Lady  Bernard,  “  this  is  a  serious 
matter  you  suggest.  The  man  may  be  honest,  and  yet  it  may 


232 


The  Vicar's  Daughter, 

be  of  no  use  trying  to  help  him.  I  don’t  want  to  bolster  him 
up  for  a  few  months  in  order  to  see  my  money  go  after  his. 
That’s  not  what  I’ve  got  to  do  with  it.  No  doubt  I  could  lose 
as  much  as  you  mention,  without  being  crippled  by  it,  for  I 
hope  it’s  no  disgrace  in  me  to  be  rich,  as  it’s  none  in  you  to 
be  poor  ;  but  I  hate  waste,  and  I  will  not  be  guilty  of  it.  If 
Mr.  Morley  will  convince  me  and  any  friend  or  man  of  busi¬ 
ness  to  whom  I  may  refer  the  matter,  that  there  is  good  proba¬ 
bility  of  his  recovering  himself  by  means  of  it,  then,  and  not 
till  then,  I  shall  feel  justified  in  risking  the  amount.  For  as 
you  say,  it  would  prevent  much  misery  to  many  besides  that 
good-hearted  creature  Mrs.  Morley  and  her  children.  It  is 
worth  doing  if  it  can  be  done — not  worth  trying  if  it  can’t.” 

“  Shall  I  write  for  you,  and  ask  him  to  come  and  see  you  ?  ” 

“No,  my  dear.  If  I  do  a  kindness,  I  must  do  it  humbly. 
It  is  a  great  liberty  to  take  with  a  man  to  offer  him  a  kindness. 
I  must  go  to  him.  I  could  not  use  the  same  freedom  with  a 
man  in  misfortune  as  with  one  in  prosperity.  I  would  have  such 
a  one  feel  that  his  money  or  his  poverty  made  no  difference  to 
me ;  and  Mr.  Morley  wants  that  lesson,  if  any  man  does. 
Besides,  after  all,  I  may  not  be  able  to  do  it  for  him,  and  then 
he  would  have  good  reason  to  be  hurt  if  I  had  made  him  dance 
attendance  on  me.” 

The  same  evening  Lady  Bernard’s  shabby  one-horse- 
brougham  stopped  at  Mr.  Morley’s  door.  She  asked  to  see 
Mrs.  Morley,  and  through  her  had  an  interview  with  her  hus¬ 
band.  Without  circumlocution,  she  told  him  that  if  he  would 
lay  his  affairs  before  her  and  a  certain  accountant  she.  named, 
to  use  their  judgment  regarding  them  in  the  hope  of  .finding 
it  possible  to  serve  him,  they  would  wait  upon  him  for  that 
purpose  at  any  time  and  place  he  pleased.  Mr.  Morley  ex¬ 
pressed  his  obligation — not  very  warmly,  she  said — repudiating 
however  the  slightest  objection,  to  her  ladyship’s  knowing  now 
what  all  the  world  must  know  the  next  day  but  one. 

Early  the  following  morning,  Lady  Bernard  and  the  ac¬ 
countant  met  Mr.  Morley  at  his  place  in  the  City,  and  by  three 


Mr.  Mo r ley.  233 

o’clock  in  the  afternoon  15,000/.  were  handed  in  to  his  account 
at  his  banker’s. 

The  carriage  was  put  down,  the  butler,  one  of  the  footmenp 
and  the  lady’s-maid  were  dismissed,  and  the  household  arrange¬ 
ments  fitted  to  a  different  scale. 

One  consequence  of  this  chastisement,  as  of  the  preceding, 
was,  that  the  whole  family  drew  yet  more  closely  and  lovingly 
together;  and  I  must  say  for  Judy  that  after  a  few  weeks  of 
what  she  called  poverty,  her  spirits  seemed  in  no  degree  the 
worse  for  the  trial. 

At  Marion’s  earnest  entreaty  no  one  told  either  Mr.  or  Mrs. 
Morley  of  the  share  she  had  had  in  saving  his  credit  and  social 
position.  For  some  time  she  suffered  from  doubt  as  to  whether 
she  had  had  any  right  to  interpose  in  the  matter,  and  might  not 
have  injured  Mr.  Morley  by  depriving  him  of  the  discipline  of 
poverty ;  but  she  reasoned  with  herself  that,  had  it  been 
necessary  for  him,  her  efforts  would  have  been  frustrated ;  and 
reminded  herself  that,  although  his  commercial  credit  had 
escaped,  it  must  still  be  a  considerable  trial  to  him  to  live  in 
reduced  style. 

But  that  it  was  not  all  the  trial  needful  for  him,  was  soon 
apparent ;  for  his  favourite  Amy  began  to  pine  more  rapidly, 
and  Judy  saw  that,  except  some  change  speedily  took  place, 
they  could  not  have  her  with  them  long.  The  father,  however, 
refused  to  admit  the  idea  that  she  was  in  danger.  I  suppose 
he  felt  as  if,  were  he  once  to  allow  the  possibility  of  losing 
her,  from  that  moment  there  would  be  no  stay  between  her  and 
the  grave :  it  would  be  a  giving  of  her  over  to  death.  But  what¬ 
ever  Dr.  Brand  suggested  was  eagerly  followed.  When  the  chills 
of  autumn  drew  near,  her  mother  took  her  toVentnor;  but 
little  change  followed,  and  before  the  new  year  she  was  gone. 
It  was  the  first  death  beyond  that  of  an  infant  they  had  had  in 
their  family,  and  took  place  at  a  time  when  the  pressure  of 
business  obligations  rendered  it  impossible  for  her  father  to  be 
out  of  London  ;  he  could  only  go  to  lay  her  in  the  earth,  and 
bring  back  his  wife.  Judy  had  never  seen  him  weep  before. 


234 


The  Vicar’s  Daughter . 

Certainly  I  never  saw  such  a  change  on  a  man.  He  was 
literally  bowed  with  grief,  as  if  he  bore  a  material  burden  upon 
his  back.  The  best  feelings  of  his  nature,  unimpeded  by  any 
jar  to  his  self-importance  or  his  prejudices,  had  been  able  to 
spend  themselves  on  the  lovely  little  creature ;  and  I  do  not 
believe  any  other  suffering  than  the  loss  of  such  a  child  could 
have  brought  into  play  that  in  him  which  was  purely  human. 

He  was  at  home  one  morning,  ill  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
when  Marion  called  on  Judy.  While  she  waited  in  the  drawing¬ 
room,  he  entered.  He  turned  the  moment  he  saw  her,  but 
had  not  taken  two  steps  towards  the  door,  when  he  turned 
again,  and  approached  her.  She  went  to  meet  him.  He  held 
out  his  hand. 

“  She  was  very  fond  of  you,  Miss  Clare,”  he  said.  “  She 
was  talking  about  you,  the  very  last  time  I  saw  her.  Let  by¬ 
gones  be  by-gones  between  us.” 

“  I  was  very  rough  and  rude  to  you,  Mr.  Morley,  and  I  am 
very  sorry,”  said  Marion. 

“  But  you  spoke  the  truth,”  he  rejoined.  “  I  thought  I  was 
above  being  spoken  to  like  a  sinner,  but  I  don’t  know  now 
why  not.” 

He  sat  down  on  a  couch,  and  leaned  his  head  on  his  hand. 
Marion  took  a  chair  near  him,  but  could  not  speak. 

“  It  is  very  hard,”  he  murmured  at  length. 

“  Whom  the  Lord  loveth  he  chasteneth,”  said  Marion. 

“  That  may  be  true  in  some  cases,  but  I  have  no  right  to 
believe  it  applies  to  me.  He  loved  the  child,  I  would  fain 
believe,  for  I  dare  not  think  of  her  either  as  having  ceased  to 
be,  or  as  alone  in  the  world  to  which  she  has  gone.  You  do 
think,  Miss  Clare,  do  you  not,  that  we  shall  know  our  friends 
in  another  world  ?  ” 

“  I  believe,”  answered  Marion,  “  that  God  sent  you  that 
child  for  the  express  purpose  of  enticing  you  back  to  himself ; 
and  if  I  believe  anything  at  all,  I  believe  that  the  gifts  of  God 
are  without  repentance.” 

Whether  or  not  he  understood  her  she  could  not  tell,  for  at 


235 


Mr.  Morlcy. 

this  point  Judy  came  in.  Seeing  them  togethei,  she  would 
have  withdrawn  again,  but  her  husband  called  her,  with  more 
tenderness  in  his  voice  than  Marion  could  have  imagined 
belonging  to  it. 

“  Come,  my  dear.  Miss  Clare  and  I  were  talking  about 
our  little  angel.  I  didn’t  think  ever  to  speak  of  her  again,  but 
I  fear  I  am  growing  foolish.  All  the  strength  is  out  of  me,  and 
I  feel  so  tired — so  weary  of  everything  !  ” 

She  sat  down  beside  him,  and  took  his  hand.  Marion  crept 
away  to  the  children.  An  hour  after  Judy  found  her  in  the 
nursery,  with  the  youngest  on  her  knee,  and  the  rest  all  about 
her.  She  was  telling  them  that  we  were  sent  into  this  world 
to  learn  to  be  good,  and  then  go  back  to  God  from  whom  we 
came,  like  little  Amy. 

“  When  I  go  out  to-mowwow,”  said  one  little  fellow,  about 
four  years  old,  “  I’ll  look  up  into  the  sky  vewy  hard,  wight  up ; 
and  then  I  shall  see  Amy,  and  God  saying  to  her,  ‘  Hushaby, 
poo’  Amy  !  You  bette’  now,  Amy?  ’  Shan’t  I,  Mawion  ?” 

She  had  taught  them  to  call  her  Marion. 

“  No,  my  pet ;  you  might  look  and  look  all  day  long,  and 
every  day,  and  never  see  God  or  Amy.” 

“  Then  they  ain't  there  !  ”  he  exclaimed  indignantly. 

“God  is  there  anyhow,”  she  answered;  “only  you  can’t  see 
him  that  way.” 

“  I  don’t  care  about  seeing  God,”  said  the  next  elder;  “  it’s 
Amy  I  want  to  see.  Do  tell  me,  Marion,  how  we  are  to  see 
Amy.  It’s  too  bad  if  we’re  never  to  see  her  again ;  and  I  don’t 
think  it’s  fair.” 

“  I  will  tell  you  the  only  way  I  know.  When  Jesus  was  in 
the  world,  he  told  us  that  all  who  had  clean  hearts  should  see 
God.  That’s  how  Jesus  himself  saw  God.” 

“  It’s  Amy,  I  tell  you,  Marion — it's  not  God  I  want  to  see,” 
insisted  the  one  who  had  last  spoken. 

“  Well,  my  dear,  but  how  can  you  see  Amy  if  you  can’t  even 
see  God  ?  If  Amy  be  in  God’s  arms,  the  first  thing  in  order 
to  find  her,  is  to  find  God.  To  be  good  is  the  only  way  to  get 


236 


The  Vicar's  Daughter. 

near  to  anybody.  When  you’re  naughty,  Willie,  you  can’t  get 
near  your  mamma,  can  you  ?  ” 

“  Yes,  I  can.  I  can  get  close  up  to  her.’, 

“  Is  that  near  enough  ?  Would  you  be  quite  content  with 
that  ?  Even  when  she  turns  away  her  face  and  won’t  look  at 
you  ?  ” 

The  little  caviller  was  silent. 

“  Did  you  ever  see  God,  Marion  ?  ”  asked  one  of  the  girls. 

She  thought  for  a  moment  before  giving  an  answer. 

“No,”  she  said.  “  I’ve  seen  things  just  after  he  had  done 
them  ;  and  I  think  I’ve  heard  him  speak  to  me  ;  but  I’ve  never 
seen  him  yet.” 

“  Then  you’re  not  good,  Marion,”  said  the  free-thinker  of 
the  group. 

“  No  ;  that’s  just  it.  But  I  hope  to  be  good  some  day,  and 
then  I  shall  see  him.” 

“  How  do  you  grow  good,  Marion  ?  ”  asked  the  girl. 

“  God  is  always  trying  to  make  me  good,”  she  answered ; 
“  and  I  try  not  to  interfere  with  him.” 

“  But  sometimes  you  forget,  don’t  you  ?  ” 

“  Yes,  I  do.” 

“  And  what  do  you  do  then  ?  ” 

“  Then  I’m  sorry  and  unhappy,  and  begin  to  try  again.” 

“  And  God  don’t  mind  much,  does  he  ?  ” 

“  He  minds  very  much  until  I  mind  ;  but  after  that  he  for¬ 
gets  it  all— takes  all  my  naughtiness  and  throws  it  behind  his 
back,  and  won’t  look  at  it.” 

“  That’s  very  good  of  God,”  said  the  reasoner, — but  with 
such  a  self-satisfied  air  in  his  approval,  that  Marion  thought  it 
time  to  stop. 

She  came  straight  to  me,  and  told  me,  with  a  face  perfectly 
radiant,  of  the  alteration  in  Mr.  Morley’s  behaviour  to  her,  and 
what  was  of  much  more  consequence,  the  evident  change  that 
had  begun  to  be  wrought  in  him. 

I  am  not  prepared  to  say  that  he  has  as  yet  shown  a  very 
shining  light,  but  that  some  change  has  passed  is  evident  in 


A  Strange  Text .  2  37 

* 

the  whole  man  of  him.  I  think  the  eternal  wind  must  now  be 
getting  in  through  some  chink  or  other  which  the  loss  of  his 
child  has  left  behind.  And  if  the  change  were  not  going  on, 
surely  he  would  ere  now  have  returned  to  his  wallowing  in 
the  mire  of  Mammon,  for  his  former  fortune  is,  I  understand, 
all  but  restored  to  him. 

I  fancy  his  growth  in  goodness  might  be  known  and  measured 
by  his  progress  in  appreciating  Marion.  He  still  regards  her 
as  extreme  in  her  notions ;  but  it  is  curious  to  see  how,  as 
they  gradually  sink  into  his  understanding,  he  comes  to  adopt 
them  as,  and  even  to  mistake  them  for,  his  own. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

A  STRANGE  TEXT. 

For  some  time  after  the  events  last  related,  things  went  on 
pretty  smoothly  with  us  for  several  years.  Indeed,  although  I 
must  confess  that  what  I  said  in  my  haste,  when  Mr.  S.  wanted 
me  to  write  this  book,  namely,  that  nothing  had  ever  happened 
to  me  worth  telling,  was  by  no  means  correct,  and  that  I 
have  found  out  my  mistake  in  the  process  of  writing  it,  yet,  on 
the  other  hand,  it  must  be  granted  that  my  story  could  never 
have  reached  the  mere  bulk  required  if  I  had  not  largely 
drawn  upon  the  history  of  my  friends  to  supplement  my  own. 
And  it  needs  no  prophetic  gift  to  foresee  that  it  will  be  the 
same  to  the  end  of  the  book.  The  lives  of  these  friends  how¬ 
ever  have  had  so  much  to  do  with  all  that  is  most  precious  to 
me  in  our  own  life,  that  if  I  were  to  leave  out  only  all  that 
did  not  immediately  touch  upon  the  latter,  the  book,  whatever 
it  might  appear  to  others,  could  not  possibly  then  appear  to 
myself  anything  like  a  real  representation  of  my  actual  life 


238  The  Vicar s  Daughter. 

and  experiences.  The  'drawing  might  be  correct,  but  the 
colour —  ? 

What  with  my  children,  and  the  increase  of  social  duty  re¬ 
sulting  from  the  growth  of  acquaintance — occasioned  in  part 
by  my  success  in  persuading  Percivale  to  mingle  a  little  more 
with  his  fellow-painters — my  heart  and  mind  and  hands  were 
all  pretty  fully  occupied  ;  but  I  still  managed  to  see  Marion 
two  or  three  times  a  week,  and  to  spend  about  so  many  hours 
with  her,  sometimes  alone,  sometimes  with  her  friends  as  well. 
Pier  society  did  much  to  keep  my  heart  open  and  to  pre¬ 
vent  it  from  becoming  selfishly  absorbed  in  its  cares  for 
husband  and  children.  For  love  which  is  only  concentrating 
its  force,  that  is,  which  is  not  at  the  same  time  widening  its 
circle,  is  itself  doomed,  and  for  its  objects  ruinous,  be  those 
objects  ever  so  sacred.  God  himself  could  never  be  content 
that  his  children  should  love  him  only;  nor  has  he  allowed  the 
few  to  succeed  who  have  tried  after  it :  perhaps  their  divinest 
success  has  been  their  most  mortifying  failure.  Indeed,  for  ex¬ 
clusive  love,  sharp  suffering  is  often  sent  as  the  needful  cure  — 
needful  to  break  the  stony  crust  which,  in  the  name  of  love  for 
one’s  own,  gathers  about  the  divinely  glowing  core — a  crust 
which,  promising  to  cherish  by  keeping  in  the  heat,  would  yet 
gradually  thicken  until  all  was  crust ;  for  truly,  in  things  of 
the  heart  and  spirit,  as  the  warmth  ceases  to  spread,  the 
molten  mass  within  ceases  to  glow,  until  at  length,  but  for  the 
divine  care  and  discipline,  there  would  be  no  love  left  for  even 
spouse  or  child — only  for  self — which  is  eternal  death. 

For  some  time  I  had  seen  a  considerable  change  in  Roger. 
It  reached  even  to  his  dress.  Hitherto,  when  got  up  for 
dinner,  he  was  what  I  was  astonished  to  hear  my  eldest  boy  the 
other  day  call  “a  howling  swell,”  but  at  other  times  he  did 
not  even  escape  remark — not  for  the  oddity  merely,  but  the 
slovenliness  of  his  attire.  Fie  had  worn,  for  more  years  than  I 
dare  guess,  a  brown  coat,  of  some  rich-looking  stuff,  whose 
long  pile  was  stuck  together  in  many  places  with  spots  and 
dabs  of  paint,  so  that  he  looked  like  our  long-haired  Bedlington 


239 


A  Strange  Text. 

terrier  Fido,  towards  the  end  of  the  week  in  muddy  weather. 
This  was  now  discarded,  so  far  at  least  as  to  be  hung  up  in  his 
brother’s  study,  to  be  at  hand  when  he  did  anything  for  him 
there,  and  replaced  by  a  more  civilized  garment  of  tweed,  of 
which  he  actually  showed  himself  a  little  careful  ;  while,  if  his 
necktie  was  red,  it  was  of  a  very  deep  and  rich  red,  and  he  had 
seldom  worn  one  at  all  before  ;  and  his  tall  brigand  looking  felt- 
hat  was  exchanged  for  one  of  half  the  altitude,  which  he  did  not 
crush  on  his  head  with  quite  as  many  indentations  as  its  surface 
could  hold.  He  also  began  to  go  to  church  with  us  sometimes. 

But  there  was  a  greater  and  more  significant  change  than 
any  of  these.  We  found  that  he  was  sticking  more  steadily  to 
work.  I  can  hardly  say  his  work,  for  he  was  a  Jack-of-all-trades, 
as  I  have  already  indicated.  He  had  a  small  income,  left  him 
by  an  old  maiden  aunt,  with  whom  he  had  been  a  favourite, 
which  had  hitherto  seemed  to  do  him  nothing  but  harm, 
enabling  him  to  alternate  fits  of  comparative  diligence  with  fits 
of  positive  idleness.  I  have  said  also,  I  believe,  that,  although 
he  could  do  nothing  thoroughly,  application  alone  was  wanted  to 
enable  him  to  distinguish  himself  in  more  than  one  thing.  His 
forte  was  engraving  on  wood  ;  and  my  husband  said  that,  if  he 
could  do  so  well  with  so  little  practice  as  he  had  had,  he  must 
be  capable  of  becoming  an  admirable  engraver.  To  our  de¬ 
light  then,  we  discovered,  all  at  once,  that  he  had  been  work¬ 
ing  steadily  for  three  months  for  the  Messrs.  D.,  whose  place 
was  not  far  from  our  house.  He  had  said  nothing  about  it  to 
his  brother,  probably  from  having  good  reason  to  fear  that  he 
would  regard  it  only  as  a  spiu't.  Having  now  however  executed 
a  block  which  greatly  pleased  himself,  he  had  brought  a  proof 
impression  to  show  Percivale ;  who,  more  pleased  with  it  than 
even  Roger  himself,  gave  him  hearty  congratulation,  and  told 
him  it  would  be  a  shame  if  he  did  not  bring  his  execution  in 
that  art  to  perfection — from  which,  judging  by  the  present 
specimen,  he  said  it  could  not  be  far  off.  The  words  brought 
into  Roger’s  face  an  expression  of  modest  gratification  which 
it  rejoiced  me  to  behold  :  he  accepted  Perci vale’s  approbation 


240 


The  Vicar's  Daughter. 

more  like  a  son  than  a  brother,  with  a  humid  glow  in  his  eyes 
and  hardly  a  word  on  his  lips.  It  seemed  to  me  that  the  child 
in  his  heart  had  begun  to  throw  off  the  swaddling  clothes 
which  foolish  manhood  had  wrapped  around  it,  and  the  germ 
of  his  being  was  about  to  assert  itself.  I  have  seldom  indeed 
seen  Percivale  look  so  pleased. 

“  Do  me  a  dozen  as  good  as  that,”  he  said,  “and  I’ll  have  the 
proofs  framed  in  silver-gilt.” 

It  has  been  done,  but  the  proofs  had  to  wait  longer  for  the 
frame  than  Percivale  for  the  proofs. 

But  he  need  have  held  out  no  such  bribe  of  brotherly  love, 
for  there  was  another  love  already  at  work  in  himself  more 
than  sufficing  to  the  affair.  But  I  check  myself :  who  shall 
say  what  love  is  sufficing  for  this  or  for  that  ?  Who  with  the 
most  enduring  and  most  passionate  love  his  heart  can  hold, 
will  venture  to  say  that  he  could  have  done  without  the  love  of 
a  brother?  Who  will  say  that  he  could  have  done  without  the 
love  of  the  dog  whose  bones  have  lain  mouldering  in  his  garden 
for  twenty  years  ?  It  is  enough  to  say  that  there  was  a  more 
engrossing,  a  more  marvellous  love  at  work. 

Roger  always  however  took  a  half-holiday  on  Saturdays,  and 
now  generally  came  to  us.  On  one  of  these  occasions  I  said  to 
him : — 

“  Wouldn’t  you  like  to  come  and  hear  Marion  play  to  her 
friends  this  evening,  Roger?” 

“  Nothing  would  give  me  greater  pleasure,”  he  answered,  and 
we  went. 

It  was  delightful.  In  my  opinion  Marion  is  a  real  artist.  I 
do  not  claim  for  her  the  higher  art  of  origination — though  I 
could  claim  for  her  a  much  higher  faculty  than  the  artistic 
itself.  I  suspect  for  instance  that  Moses  was  a  greater  man 
than  the  writer  of  the  book  of  Job,  notwithstanding  that  the 
poet  moves  me  so  much  more  than  the  divine  politician. 
Marion  combined  in  a  wonderful  way  the  critical  faculty  with 
the  artistic — which  two,  however  much  of  the  one  may  be 
found  without  the  other,  are  mutually  essential  to  the  perfection 


241 


A  Strange  Text, 

of  each.  While  she  littered  from  herself  she  heard  with  Tier 
audience  ;  while  she  played  and  sung  with  her  own  fingers 
and  mouth,  she  at  the  same  time  listened  with  their  ears, 
knowing  what  they  must  feel,  as  well  as  what  she  meant  to 
utter.  And  hence  it  was,  I  think,  that  she  came  into  such 
vital  contact  with  them  even  through  her  piano. 

As  we  returned  home,  Roger  said,  after  some  remark  of 
mine  of  a  cognate  sort — 

“  Does  she  never  try  to  teach  them  anything,  Ethel  ?  ” 

<£  She  is  constantly  teaching  them  whether  she  tries  or  not,’* 
I  answered.  “If  you  can  make  any  one  believe  that  there  is 
something  somewhere  to  be  trusted,  is  not  that  the  best  lesson 
you  can  give  him  ?  That  can  be  taught  only  by  being  such 
that  people  cannot  but  trust  you.” 

“I  didn’t  need  to  be  told  that,”  he  answered.  “What  I 
want  to  know  is,  whether  or  not  she  ever  teaches  them  by  word 
of  mouth — an  ordinary  and  inferior  mode,  if  you  will.” 

“  If  you  had  ever  heard  her,  you  would  not  call  hers  an 
ordinary  or  inferior  mode,”  I  returned.  “  Her  teaching  is  the 
outcome  of  her  life,  the  blossom  of  her  being,  and  therefore 
has  the  whole  force  of  her  living  truth  to  back  it.” 

“  Have  I  offended  you,  Ethel?”  he  asked. 

Then  I  saw  that,  in  my  eagerness  to  glorify  my  friend,  I  had 
made  myself  unpleasant  to  Roger — a  fault  of  which  I  had  been 
dimly  conscious  before  now.  Marion  would  never  have  fallen 
into  that  error.  She  always  made  her  friends  feel  that  she  was 
with  them,  side  by  side  with  them  and  turning  her  face  in  the 
same  direction,  before  she  attempted  to  lead  them  further. 

I  assured  him  that  he  had  not  offended  me,  but  that  I  had 
been  foolishly  backing  him  from  the  front,  as  I  once  heard  an 
Irishman  say — some  of  whose  bulls  were  very  good  milch- 
cows. 

“  She  teaches  them  every  Sunday  evening,”  I  added. 

“  Have  you  ever  heard  her  ?  ” 

“  More  than  once.  And  I  never  heard  anything  like  it.” 

“  Could  you  take  me  with  you  sometime  ?  ”  he  asked,  in 

R 


242 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter . 

an  assumed  tone  of  ordinary  interest,  out  of  which  however 
he  could  not  keep  a  slight  tremble. 

“I  don’t  know. — I  don’t  quite  see  why  I  shouldn’t. — And 
yet — ” 

“  Men  do  go,”  urged  Roger,  as  if  it  were  mere  half' 
indifferent  suggestion.  . 

“Oh,  yes;  you  would  have  plenty  to  keep  you  in  coun¬ 
tenance  !  ”  I  returned  ;  “ — men  enough — and  worth  teaching 
loo — some  of  them  at  least !  ” 

“  Then  I  don’t  see  why  she  should  object  to  me  for  another.” 

“I  don’t  know  that  she  would.  You  are  not  exactly  of  the 
sort — you  know — that — ” 

“  I  don’t  see  the  difference.  I  see  no  essential  difference, 
at  least.  The  main  thing  is,  that  I  am  in  want  of  teaching — as 
much  as  any  of  them.  And  if  she  stands  on  circumstances,  I 
am  a  working  man  as  much  as  any  of  them — perhaps  more 
than  most  of  them.  Few  of  them  work  after  midnight,  I 
should  think,  as  I  do  not  unfrequently.” 

“  Still,  all  admitted,  I  should  hardly  like — ” 

“  I  didn’t  mean  you  were  to  take  me  without  asking  her,” 
he  said.  “  I  should  never  have  dreamed  of  that.” 

“  And  if  I  were  to  ask  her,  I  am  certain  she  would  refuse. 
But,”  I  added,  thinking  over  the  matter  a  little,  “  I  will  take 
you  without  asking  her.  Come  with  me  to-morrow  night.  I 
don’t  think  she  will  have  the  heart  to  send  you  away.” 

“  I  will,”  he  answered,  with  more  gladness  in  his  voice  than 
he  intended,  I  think,  to  manifest  itself. 

We  arranged  that  he  should  call  for  me  at  a  certain  hour. 

I  told  Percivale,  and  he  pretended  to  grumble  that  1  was 
taking  Roger  instead  of  him. 

“  It  was  Roger  and  not  you  that  made  the  request,”  I  re¬ 
turned.  “  I  can’t  say  I  see  why  you  should  go  because  Roger 
asked.  A  woman’s  logic  is  not  equal  to  that.” 

“  I  didn’t  mean  he  wasn’t  to  go.  But  why  shouldn’t  I  be 
done  good  to  as  well  as  he  ?  ” 

“  If  you  really  want  to  go,”  I  said,  “  I  don’t  see  why  you 


243 


A  Strange  Text. 

shouldn't  It’s  ever  so  much  better  than  going  to  any  church  I 
know  of — except  one.  But  we  must  be  prudent  I  can’t  take 
more  than  one  the  first  time.  We  must  get  the  thin  edge  of  the 
wedge  in  first.” 

“And  you  count  Roger  the  thin  edge?” 

“  Yes.” 

“  I’il  tell  him  so.” 

“  Do.— The  thin  edge,  mind,  without  which  the  thicker  the 
rest  is,  the  more  useless! — Tell  him  that,  if  you  like.  But, 
seriously,  I  quite  expect  to  take  you  there  too  the  Sunday 
after.” 

Roger  and  I  went.  Intending  to  be  a  little  late,  we  found 
when  we  reached  the  house,  that,  as  we  had  wished,  the  class 
was  already  begun.  In  going  up  the  stairs,  we  saw  very  few  of 
the  grown  inhabitants,  but  in  several  of  the  rooms,  of  which  the 
doors  stood  open,  elder  girls  taking  care  of  the  younger  chil¬ 
dren— in  one,  a  boy  nursing  the  baby  with  as  much  interest  as 
any  girl  could  have  shown.  We  lingered  on  the  way,  wish 
ing  to  give  Marion  time  to  get  so  thoroughly  into  her  work 
that  she  could  take  no  notice  of  our  intrusion.  When  we 
reached  the  last  stair  we  could  at  length  hear  her  voice,  of 
which  the  first  words  we  could  distinguish,  as  we  still  ascended, 
were — 

“  I  will  now  read  to  you  the  chapter  of  which  I  spoke.” 

rl  he  door  being  open,  we  could  hear  well  enough,  although 
she  was  sitting  where  we  could  not  see  her.  We  would  not 
show  ourselves  until  the  reading  was  ended  :  so  much  at  least 
we  might  overhear  without  offence. 

Before  she  had  read  many  words,  Roger  and  I  began  to  cast 
strange  looks  on  each  other.  For  this  was  the  chapter  she  read  : 

“And  Joseph,  wheresoever  he  went  in  the  city,  took  the 
Lord  Jesus  with  him,  where  he  was  sent  for  to  work,  to  make 
gates,  or  milk-pails,  or  sieves,  or  boxes;  the  Lord  Jesus  was 
with  him  wheresoever  he  went.  And  as  often  as  Joseph  had 
anything  in  his  work  to  make  longer  or  shorter,  or  wider  or 
narrower,  the  Lord  Jesus  would  stretch  his  hand  towards  it. 

R  2 


244 


The  Vicar's  Daughter . 

And  presently  it  became  as  Joseph  would  have  it.  So  that 
he  had  no  need  to  finish  anything  with  his  own  hands,  for 
he  was  not  very  skilful  at  his  carpenter’s  trade. 

“  On  a  certain  time  the  king  of  Jerusalem  sent  for  him,  and 
said,  I  would  have  thee  make  me  a  throne  of  the  same  dimen¬ 
sions  with  that  place  in  which  I  commonly  sit.  Joseph  obeyed, 
and  forthwith  began  the  work,  and  continued  two  years  in  the 
king’s  palace  before  he  finished  it.  And  when  he  came  to  fix 
it  in  its  place,  he  found  it  wanted  two  spans  on  each  side  of  the 
appointed  measure.  Which  when  the  king  saw,  he  was  very 
angry  with  Joseph  Jand  Joseph  afraid  of  the  king’s  anger,  went 
to  bed  without  his  supper,  taking  not  anything  to  eat.  Then 
the  Lord  Jesus  asked  him  what  he  was  afraid  of.  Joseph  re¬ 
plied,  Because  I  have  lost  my  labour  in  the  work  which  I  have 
been  about  these  two  years.  Jesus  said  to  him,  Fear  not, 
neither  be  cast  down ;  do  thou  lay  hold  on  one  side  of  the 
throne,  and  I  will  the  other,  and  we  will  bring  it  to  its  just 
dimensions.  And  when  Joseph  had  done  as  the  Lord  Jesus 
said,  and  each  of  them  had  with  strength  drawn  his  side,  the 
throne  obeyed,  and  was  brought  to  the  proper  dimensions  of 
the  place  :  which  mirade  when  they  who  stood  by  saw,  they 
were  astonished,  and  praised  God.  The  throne  was  made  of 
the  same  wood,  which  was  in  being  in  Solomon’s  time,  namely, 
wood  adorned  with  various  shapes  and  figures.” 

Her  voice  ceased,  and  a  pause  followed. 

“  We  must  go  in  now,”  I  whispered. 

“  She’ll  be  going  to  say  something  now  ;  just  wait  till  she’s 
started,”  said  Roger. 

“  Now  what  do  you  think  of  it  ?  ”  asked  Marion,  in  a  medita¬ 
tive  tone. 

We  crept  within  the  scope  of  her  vision,  and  stood.  A  voice 
which  I  knew,  was  at  the  moment  replying  to  her  question. 

“  I  don’t  think  it’s  much  of  a  chapter,  that,  grannie.” 

The  speaker  was  the  keen- faced,  elderly  man,  with  iron- 
grey  whiskers,  who  had  come  forward  to  talk  to  Percivale  on 
that  miserable  evening  when  we  were  out  searching  for  little 


245 


A  Strange  Text. 

Ethel.  He  sat  near  where  we  stood  by  the  door,  between 
two  respectable-looking  women,  who  had  been  listening  to  the 
chapter  as  devoutly  as  if  it  had  been  of  the  true  gospel. 

“  Sure,  grannie,  that  ain’t  out  o’  the  Bible  ?  ”  said  another 
voice,  from  somewhere  farther  off. 

“  We’ll  talk  about  that  presently,”  answered  Marion.  “  I 
want  to  hear  what  Mr.  Jarvis  has  to  say  to  it  :  he’s  a  carpenter 
himself,  you  see — a  joiner,  that  is,  you  know.” 

All  the  faces  in  the  room  were  now  turned  towards  Jarvis. 

“Tell  me  why  you  don’t  think  much  of  it,  Mr.  Jarvis,”  said 
Marion. 

“  ’Tain’t  a  bit  likely,”  he  answered. 

“What  isn’t  likely?” 

“  Why,  not  one  single  thing  in  the  whole  kit  of  it.  And  first 
and  foremost,  ’tain’t  a  bit  likely  the  old  man  ’ud  ha’  been  sich  a 
duffer.” 

“Why  not?  There  must  have  been  stupid  people  then  as 
well  as  now.” 

“  Not  his  father,”  said  Jarvis  decidedly. 

“  He  wasn’t  but  his  step-father,  like,  you  know,  Mr.  Jarvis,” 
remarked  the  woman  beside  him  in  a  low  voice. 

“Well,  he’d  never  ha’  been  hers  then.  She  wouldn’t  ha’ 
had  a  word  to  say  to  him.” 

“I  have  seen  a  good — and  wise  woman  too— with  a  dull 
husband,”  said  Marion. 

“  You  know  you  don’t  believe  a  word  of  it  yourself,  grannie,” 
said  still  another  voice. 

“  Besides,”  she  went  on  without  heeding  the  interruption, 
“  in  those  times,  I  suspect,  such  things  were  mostly  managed 
by  the  parents,  and  the  woman  herself  had  little  to  do  with 
them.” 

A  murmur  of  subdued  indignation  arose — chiefly  of  female 
voices. 

“  Well,  they  wouldn’t  then,”  said  Jarvis. 

“  He  might  have  been  rich,”  suggested  Marion. 

“  I’ll  go  bail  he  never  made  the  money  then,”  said  Jarvis. 


246 


The  Vicar  3  Daughter . 

“  An  old  idget !  I  don’t  believe  sich  a  feller  ’ud  hat  been  let 
marry  a  woman  like  her — I  don't." 

“  You  mean  you  don’t  think  God  would  have  let  him  ?  n 

“  Well,  that’s  what  I  do  mean,  grannie.  The  thing  couldn’t 
ha’  been — nohow.” 

“  I  agree  with  you  quite.  And  now  I  want  to  hear  more  of 
what  in  the  story  you  don’t  consider  likely.” 

“  Well,  it  ain’t  likely  sich  a  workman  ’ud  ha’  stood  so  high  i* 
the  trade,  that  the  king  of  Jerusalem  would  ha’  sent  for  him 
of  all  the  tradesmen  in  the  town  to  make  his  new  throne  for 
him.  No  more  it  ain’t  likely — and  let  him  be  as  big  a  duffer 
as  ever  was,  to  be  a  jiner  at  all  -  that  he’d  ha’  been  two 
year  at  work  on  that  there  throne — an’  a  carvin’  of  it  in  figures 
too  ! — and  never  found  out  it  was  four  spans  too  narrer  for  the 
place  it  had  to  stand  in.  Do  ye  ’appen  to  know  now,  grannie, 
how  much  is  a  span  ?  ” 

“  I  don’t  know.  Do  you  know,  Mrs.  Percivale  ?  ” 

The  sudden  reference  took  me  very  much  by  surprise  ;  but 
I  had  not  forgotten  happily  the  answer  I  received  to  the  same 
question,  when  anxious  to  realize  the  monstrous  height  of 
Goliath. 

“I  remember  my  father  telling  me,”  I  replied,  “that  it  was  as 
much  as  you  could  stretch  between  your  thumb  and  little 
finger.” 

“There!”  cried  Jarvis  triumphantly,  parting  the  extreme 
members  of  his  right  hand  against  the  back  of  the  woman  in 
front  of  him— “  that  would  be  seven  or  eight  inches  !  Four 
times  that  ? — Two  foot  and  a  half  at  least !  Think  of  that  !  ” 

“  I  admit  the  force  of  both  your  objections,”  said  Marion.— 
“And  now  to  turn  to  a  more  important  part  of  the  story — what 
do  you  think  of  the  miracle  attributed  to  our  Lord  in  it  ?  What 
do  you  think  of  the  f^ay  in  which  according  to  it  he  got  his 
father  out  of  his  evil  plight  ?  ” 

I  saw  plainly  enough  that  she  was  quietly  advancing  towards 
some  point  in  her  view — guiding  the  talk  thitherward,  steadily, 
without  haste  or  effort. 


247 


A  Strange  Text . 

Before  Jarvis  had  time  to  make  any  reply,  the  blind  man, 
mentioned  in  a  former  chapter,  struck  in,  with  the  tone  of  one 
who  had  been  watching  his  opportunity. 

“/make  more  o’  that  pint  than  the  t’other,”* he  said.  “A 
man  as  is  a  duffer  may  well  make  a  mull  of  a  thing,  but  a  man 
as  knows  what  he’s  up  to  can’t.  I  don’t  make  much  o’  them 
miracles,  you  know,  grannie — that  is,  I  don’t  know,  and  what 
I  don’t  know,  I  won’t  say  as  I  knows  ;  but  what  I’m  sure  of  is 
this  here  one  thing— that  man  or  boy  as  could  work  a  miracle, 
you  know,  grannie,  wouldn’t  work  no  miracle  as  there  wasn’t 
no  good  working  of.” 

“  It  was  to  help  his  father,”  suggested  Marion. 

Here  Jarvis  broke  in  almost  with  scorn. 

“  To  help  him  to  pass  for  a  clever  fellow  when  he  was  as  great 
a  duffer  as  ever  broke  bread  !  ” 

“  I’m  quite  o’  your  opinion,  Mr.  Jarvis,”  said  the  blind  man. 
“  It  ’ud  ha’  been  more  like  him  to  tell  his  father  what  a  duffer 
he  was,  and  send  him  home  to  learn  his  trade.” 

“  He  couldn’t  do  that,  you  know,”  said  Marion  gently. 
“  He  couldiit  use  such  words  to  his  father,  if  he  were  ever  so 
stupid.” 

“  His  step-father,  grannie,”  suggested  the  woman  who  had 
corrected  Jarvis  on  the  same  point.  She  spoke  very  modestly, 
but  was  clearly  bent  on  holding  forth  what  light  she  had. 

“  Certainly,  Mrs.  Renton  ;  but  you  know  he  couldn’t  be  rude 
to  any  one— leaving  his  own  mother’s  husband  out  of  the 
question.” 

“True  for  you,  grannie,”  returned  the  woman. 

“  I  think  though,”  said  Jarvis,  “  for  as  hard  as  he’d  ha’  found 
it,  it  would  ha’  been  more  like  him  to  set  to  work  and  teach 
his  father,  than  to  scamp  up  his  mulls.” 

“  Certainly,”  acquiesced  Marion.  “  To  hide  any  man’s  faults, 
and  leave  him  not  only  stupid  but  in  all  probability  obstinate 
and  self-satisfied,  would  not  be  like  him.  Suppose  our  Lord 
had  had  such  a  father,  what  do  you  think  he  would  have 
done  ?  ” 


24  S  The  Vicar  s  Daughter. 

“  He’d  ha’  done  all  he  could  to  make  a  man  of  him,”  answered 
Jarvis. 

“  Wouldn’t  he  have  set  about  making  him  comfortable  then, 
in  spite  of  his  blunders  ?  ”  said  Marion. 

A  significant  silence  followed  this  question. 

“Well,  no  ;  not  first  thing — I  don’t  think,”  returned  Jarvis, 
at  length.  “  He’d  ha’  got  him  o’  some  good  first,  and  gone  in 
to  make  him  comfortable  arter.” 

“  Then  I  suppose  you  would  rather  be  of  some  good  and  un¬ 
comfortable  than  of  no  good  and  comfortable  ?  ”  said  Marion. 

“I  hope  so,  grannie,”  answered  Jarvis;  and  “/  would;” 
“  Yes ;”  “  That  I  would,”  came  from  several  voices  in  the 
little  crowd,  showing  what  an  influence  Marion  must  have 
already  had  upon  them. 

“  Then,”  she  said — and  I  saw  by  the  light  which  rose  in  her 
eyes  that  she  was  now  coming  to  the  point — “  Then  surely  it 
must  be  worth  our  while  to  bear  discomfort  in  order  to  grow 
of  some  good  !  Mr.  Jarvis  has  truly  said  that  if  Jesus  had  had 
such  a  father,  he  would  have  made  him  of  some  good  before  he 
made  him  comfortable  :  that  is  just  the  way  your  Father  in 
heaven  is  acting  with  you.  Not  many  of  you  would  say  you 
are  of  much  good  yet ;  but  you  would  like  to  be  better.  And 
yet — put  it  to  yourselves — do  you  not  grumble  at  everything 
that  comes  to  you  that  you  don’t  like,  and  call  it  bad  luck, 
and  worse — yes,  even  when  you  know  it  comes  of  your  own 
fault,  and  nobody  else’s?  You  think  if  you  had  only  this  or 
that  to  make  you  comfortable,  you  would  be  content ;  and  you 
call  it  very  hard  that  So-and-so  should  be  getting  on  well,  and 
saving  money,  and  you  down  on  your  luck,  as  you  say.  Some 
of  you  even  grumble  that  your  neighbour’s  children  should  be 
healthy  when  yours  are  pining.  You  would  allow  that  you  are 
not  of  much  good  yet,  but  you  forget  that  to  make  you  com¬ 
fortable  as  you  are,  would  be  the  same  as  to  pull  out  Joseph’s  mis¬ 
fitted  thrones  and  doors,  and  make  his  mis-shapen  buckets  over 
again  for  him.  That  you  think  so  absurd  that  you  can’t 


249 


A  Strange  Text. 

believe  the  story  a  bit  ;  but  you  would  be  helped  out  of  all 
your  troubles,  even  those  you  bring  on  yourselves,  not  thinking 
what  the  certain  consequence  would  be — namely  that  you  would 
grow  of  less  and  less  value,  until  you  were  of  no  good  either 
to  God  or  man.  If  you  think  about  it,  you  will  see  that  I 
am  right.  When,  for  instance,  are  you  most  willing  to  do 
right  ?  When  are  you  most  ready  to  hear  about  good  things  ? 
When  are  you  most  inclined  to  pray  to  God?  When  you 
have  plenty  of  money  in  your  pockets,  or  when  you  are 
in  want  ?  When  you  have  had  a  good  dinner,  or  when  you 
have  not  enough  to  get  one  ?  When  you  are  in  jolly  health, 
or  when  the  life  seems  ebbing  out  of  you  in  misery  and  pain? 
No  matter  that  you  may  have  brought  it  on  yourselves  ;  it  is  no 
less  God’s  way  of  bringing  you  back  to  him,  for  he  decrees  that 
suffering  shall  follow  sin  ;  it  is  just  then  you  most  need  it;  and 
if  it  drives  you  to  God,  that  is  its  end,  and  there  will  be  an 
end  of  it.  The  prodigal  was  himself  to  blame  for  the  want 
that  made  him  a  beggar  at  the  swine’s  trough  ;  yet  that  want  was 
the  greatest  blessing  God  could  give  him,  for  it  drove  him  home 
to  his  father. 

“  But  some  of  you  will  say  you  are  no  prodigals ;  nor 
is  it  your  fault  that  you  find  yourselves  in  such  difficulties  that 
life  seems  hard  to  you.  It  would  be  very  wrong  in  me  to  set 
myself  up  as  your  judge,  and  to  tell  you  that  it  was  your  fault.  If 
it  is,  God  will  let  you  know  it.  But  if  it  be  not  your  fault,  it 
does  not  follow  that  you  need  the  less  to  be  driven  back  to 
God.  It  is  not  only  in  punishment  of  our  sins  that  we  are 
made  to  suffer  :  God’s  runaway  children  must  be  brought  back 
to  their  home  and  their  blessedness — back  to  their  Father  in 
heaven.  It  is  not  always  a  sign  that  God  is  displeased  with 
us  when  he  makes  us  suffer.  i  Whom  the  Lord  loveth,  he  chas- 
teneth,  and  scourgeth  every  son  whom  he  receiveth.  If  ye  endure 
chastening,  God  dealeth  with  you  as  with  sons.’  But  instead  of 
talking  more  about  it,  I  must  take  it  to  myself,  and  learn  not 
to  grumble  when  my  plans  fail.” 


2$0 


The  Vicar s  Daughter . 


“  That’s  what  you  never  goes  and  does,  grannie,”  growled  a 
voice  from  somewhere. 

I  learned  afterwards  it  was  that  of  a  young  tailor  who 
was  constantly  quarrelling  with  his  mother. 

“  I  think  I  have  given  up  grumbling  at  my  circumstances,” 
she  rejoined  ;  “but  then  I  have  nothing  to  grumble  at  in  them. 
I  haven’t  known  hunger  or  cold  for  a  great  many  years  now. 
But  I  do  feel  discontented  at  times  when  I  see  some  of  you 
not  getting  better  so  fast  as  I  should  like.  I  ought  to  have 
patience,  remembering  how  patient  God  is  with  my  conceit 
and  stupidity,  and  not  expect  too  much  of  you.  Still,  it  can’t 
be  wrong  to  wish  that  you  tried  a  good  deal  more  to  do  what 
he  wants  of  you.  Why  should  his  children  not  be  his 
friends?  If  you  would  but  give  yourselves  up  to  him,  you 
would  find  his  yoke  so  easy,  his  burden  so  light !  But  you  do 
it  only  half,  and  some  of  you  not  at  all. 

“  Now  however  that  we  have  got  a  lesson  from  a  false  gospel, 
we  may  as  well  get  one  from  the  true.” 

As  she  spoke,  she  turned  to  her  New  Testament  which  lay 
beside  her.  But  Jarvis  interrupted  her. 

“  Where  did  you  get  that  stuff  you  was  a  readin’  of  to  us, 
grannie  ?  ”  he  asked. 

“  The  chapter  I  read  to  you,”  she  answered,  “  is  part  of  a 
pretended  gospel,  called,  ‘  The  First  Gospel  of  the  Infancy  of 
Jesus  Christ.’  I  can’t  tell  you  who  wrote  it,  or  how  it  came  to  be 
written.  All  I  can  say  is,  that,  very  early  in  the  history  of  the 
church  there  were  people  who  indulged  themselves  in  inventing 
things  about  Jesus,  and  seem  to  have  had  no  idea  of  the  im¬ 
portance  of  keeping  to  facts,  or,  in  other  words,  of  speaking 
and  writing  only  the  truth.  All  they  seem  to  have  cared  about 
was  the  gratifying  of  their  own  feelings  of  love  and  veneration  ; 
and  so  they  made  up  tales  about  him,  in  his  honour,  as  they 
supposed,  no  doubt,  just  as  if  he  had  been  a  false  god  of  the 
Greeks  or  Romans.  It  is  long  before  some  people  learn  to 
speak  the  truth,  even  after  they  know  it  is  wicked  to  lie.  Per¬ 
haps,  however,  they  did  not  expect  their  stories  to  be  received 


A  Strange  Text.  251 

as  facts,  intending  them  only  as  a  sort  of  recognized  fiction 
about  him — amazing  presumption  at  the  best.” 

“  Did  anybody  then  ever  believe  the  likes  of  that,  grannie  ?  ” 
asked  Jarvis. 

“Yes;  what  I  read  to  you  seems  to  have  been  believed 
within  a  hundred  years  after  the  death  of  the  apostles.  There 
are  several  such  writings— with  a  great  deal  of  nonsense  in  them 
— which  were  generally  accepted  by  Christian  people  for  many 
hundreds  of  years.” 

“  I  can’t  imagine  how  anybody  could  go  inwentuating  such 
things  !  ”said  the  blind  man. 

“It  is  hard  for  us  to  imagine.  They  could  not  have  seen 
how  their  inventions  would,  in  later  times,  be  judged  anything 
but  honouring  to  him  in  whose  honour  they  wrote  them. 
Nothing,  be  it  ever  so  well  invented,  can  be  so  good  as  the 
bare  truth.  Perhaps,  however,  no  one  in  particular  invented 
some  of  them,  but  the  stories  grew,  just  as  a  report  often  does 
amongst  yourselves.  Although  everybody  fancies  he  or  she 
is  only  telling  just  what  was  told  to  him  or  her,  yet,  by  degrees, 
the  pin’s-point  of  a  fact  is  covered  over  with  lies  upon  lies, 
almost  everybody  adding  something,  until  the  report  has  grown 
to  be  a  mighty  falsehood.  Why,  you  had  such  a  story  your¬ 
selves,  not  so  very  long  ago,  about  one  of  your  best  friends  ! 
One  comfort  is,  such  a  story  is  sure  not  to  be  consistent  with 
itself ;  it  is  sure  to  show  its  own  falsehood  to  any  one  who  is 
good  enough  to  doubt  it,  and  who  will  look  into  it,  and 
examine  it  wrell.  You  don’t,  for  instance,  want  any  other 
proof  than  the  things  themselves  to  show  you  that  what  I  have 
just  read  to  you  can’t  be  true.” 

“  But  then  it  puzzles  me  to  think  how  anybody  could  believe 
them,”  said  the  blind  man. 

“  Many  of  the  early  Christians  were  so  childishly  sim¬ 
ple  that  they  wrould  believe  almost  anything  that  was  told 
them.  In  a  time  when  such  nonsense  could  be  w7ritten,  it 
is  no  great  wonder  there  should  be  many  who  could  believe 


252 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter . 

“  Then  what  was  their  faith  worth,”  said  the  blind  man,  "  if 
they'believed  false  and  true  all  the  same  ?” 

“Worth  no  end  to  them,”  answered  Marion,  with  eagerness  ; 
“  for  all  the  false  things  they  might  believe  about  him,  could 
not  destroy  the  true  ones,  or  prevent  them  from  believing  in 
Jesus  himself,  and  bettering  their  ways  for  his  iake.  And  as  they 
grew  better  and  better  by  doing  what  he  told  them,  they  would 
gradually  come  to  disbelieve  this  and  that  foolish  or  bad  thing.” 

“  But  wouldn't  that  make  them  stop  believing  in  him  alto¬ 
gether  ?  ” 

“  On  the  contrary,  it  would  make  them  hold  the  firmer  to 
all  that  they  saw  to  be  true  about  him.  There  are  many  people,  I 
presume,  in  other  countries,  who  believe  those  stories  still ; 
but  all  the  Christians  I  know,  have  cast  aside  every  one  of 
those  writings,  and  keep  only  to  those  we  call  the  gospels. 
To  throw  away  what  is  not  true,  because  it  is  not  true,  will 
always  help  the  heart  to  be  truer;  will  make  it  the  more 
anxious  to  cleave  to  what  it  sees  must  be  true.  Jesus  remon¬ 
strated  with  the  Jews  that  they  would  not  of  themselves  judge 
what  was  right ;  and  the  man  who  lets  God  teach  him  is  made 
abler  to  judge  what  is  right  a  thousand  fold.” 

“  Then  don’t  you  think  it  likely  this  much  is  true,  grannie  ” 
— said  Jarvis,  probably  interested  in  the  question,  in  part  at 
least,  from  the  fact  that  he  was  himself  a  carpenter — “  that  he 
worked  with  his  father,  and  helped  him  in  his  trade  ?  ” 

“  I  do  indeed,”  answered  Marion.  “  I  believe  that  is  the 
one  germ  of  truth  in  the  whole  story.  It  is  possible  even  that 
some  incidents  of  that  part  of  his  life  may  have  been  handed 
down  a  little  way,  at  length  losing  all  their  shape,  however,  and 
turning  into  the  kind  of  thing  I  read  to  you.  Not  to  mention 
that  they  called  him  the  carpenter,  is  it  likely  he  who  came 
down  for  the  express  purpose  of  being  a  true  man,  would  see 
his  father  toiling  to  feed  him  and  his  mother  and  his  brothers 
and  sister,  and  go  idling  about,  instead  of  patting  to  his  hand 
to  help  him  ?  Would  that  have  been  like  him  ?  ” 

“Certainly  not,”  said  Mr.  Jarvis. 


A  Strange  Text .  253 

But  a  doubtful  murmur  came  from  the  blind  man,  which 
speedily  took  shape  in  the  following  remark  : 

11 1  can’t  help  thinkin’,  grannie,  of  one  time — you  read  it  to 
us  not  long  ago — when  he  laid  down  in  the  boat  and  went  fast 
asleep,  takin’  no  more  heed  o’  them  a  slavin’  o’  theirselves  to 
death  at  their  oars,  than  if  they’d  been  all  comfortable  like 
hisself :  that  wasn’t  much  like  takin’  of  his  share — was  it 
now  ?  ” 

“John  Evans,”  returned  Marion  with  severity,  “  it  is  quite 
right  to  put  any  number  of  questions,  and  express  any  number 
of  doubts  you  honestly  feel ;  but  you  have  no  right  to  make 
remarks  you  would  not  make  if  you  were  anxious  to  be  as 
fair  to  another  as  vou  would  have  another  be  to  you.  Have 
you  considered  that  he  had  been  working  hard  all  day  long, 
and  was  in  fact  worn  out?  You  don’t  think  what  hard  work 
it  is,  and  how  exhausting,  to  speak  for  hours  to  great  multi¬ 
tudes — and  in  the  open  air  too,  where  your  voice  has  no  help 
to  make  it  heard.  And  that’s  not  all  •  for  he  had  most  likely 
been  healing  many  as  well ;  and  I  believe  every  time  the  power 
went  out  of  him  to  cure,  he  suffered  in  the  relief  he  gave  ;  it 
left  him  weakened — with  so  much  the  less  of  strength  to  support 
his  labours — so  that,  even  in  his  very  body  he  took  our  iniquities 
and  bare  our  infirmities.  Would  you  then  blame  a  weary  man, 
whose  perfect  faith  in  God  rendered  it  impossible  for  him  to 
fear  anything,  that  he  lay  down  to  rest  in  God’s  name,  and 
left  his  friends  to  do  their  part  for  the  redemption  of  the  world 
in  rowing  him  to  the  other  side  of  the  lake— a  thing  they  were 
doing  every  other  day  of  their  lives?  You  ought  to  consider 
before  you  make  such  remarks,  Mr.  Evans.  And  you  forget 
also  that,  the  moment  they  called  him,  he  rose  to  help  them.” 

“  And  find  fault  with  them,”  interposed  Evans,  rather 
viciously,  I  thought. 

“  Yes ;  for  they  were  to  blame  for  their  own  trouble,  and 
ought  to  send  it  away.” 

“  What  !  To  blame  for  the  storm  ?  How  could  they  send 
that  away  ?  ” 


251 


The  Vicafs  Daughter. 

“  Was  it  the  storm  that  troubled  them  then  ?  It  was  their 
own  fear  of  it.  The  storm  could  not  have  troubled  them  if 
they  had  had  faith  in  their  Father  in  heaven.” 

“They  had  good  cause  to  be  afraid  of  it  anyhow.” 

“He  judged  they  had  not,  for  he  was  not  afraid  himself. 
You  judge  they  had,  because  you  would  have  been  afraid.” 

“  He  could  help  himself,  you  see.” 

“  And  they  couldn’t  trust  either  him  or  his  Father,  notwith¬ 
standing  all  he  had  done  to  manifest  himself  and  his  Father  to 
them.  Therefore  he  saw  that  the  storm  about  them  was  not 
the  thing  that  most  required  rebuke.  The  miserable  faith¬ 
lessness  within  them  was  a  far  worse  thing,  and  the  cause  of 
all  the  fear.  For  children  of  the  great  God  to  believe  that 
they  were  at  the  mercy  of  winds  and  waves,  puffs  of  air,  and 
splashes  of  water,  was  most  miserable  and  degrading.  Did  he 
not  do  well  to  find  fault  with  them,  John  Evans? — The  fact 
is,”  she  went  on  after  a  short  pause,  “  that  at  this  very  moment 
you  are  raying  yourself  open  to  the  same  rebuke.  If  they  had 
known  him,  the  disciples  would  not  have  been  afraid.  If  you 
had  known  him,  you  would  not  thus  lightly  have  brought  such 
a  charge  against  him.  To  you  also  belongs  the  word — O  thou 
of  little  faith,  wherefore  didst  thou  doubt?” 

“  I  never  pretended  to  much  o’  the  sort,”  growled  Evans. 
“  Quite  the  contrary.” 

“  And  wrhy  ?  Because,  like  an  honest  man,  you  wouldn’t 
pretend  to  what  you  hadn’t  got.  But  if  you  carried  your 
honesty  far  enough,  you  would  have  taken  pains  to  under¬ 
stand  our  Lord  first.  Like  his  other  judges,  you  condemn 
him  beforehand.  You  will  not  call  that  honesty?” 

“  I  don’t  see  what  right  you’ve  got  to  badger  me  like  this 
afore  a  congregation  o’  people,”  said  the  blind  man  rising  in 
indignation.  “  If  I  ’ain’t  got  my  heye-sight,  1  ha’  got  my  feelin’s.” 

“  And  do  you  think  he  has  no  feelings,  Mr.  Evans  ?  You 
have  spoken  evil  of  him  ;  I  have  spoken  but  the  truth  of  you  !  ” 

“  Come,  come,  grannie,”  said  the  blind  man,  quailing  a 
little,  “  don’t  talk  squash.  I’m  a  livin’  man  afore  the  heyes  o’ 


A  Strange  Text.  255 

this  here  company,  an’  he  ain’t  nowheres.  Bless  you,  he  don’t 
mind  !  ” 

“  He  minds  so  much,”  returned  Marion  in  a  subdued  voice, 
which  seemed  to  tremble  with  coming  tears,  “  that  he  will 
never  rest  until  you  think  fairly  of  him.  And  he  is  here  new, 
for  he  said — ‘  I  am  with  you  always,  to  the  end  of  the  world  / 
and  he  has  heard  every  word  you  have  been  saying  against 
him.  He  isn’t  angry  like  me,  but  your  words  may  well  rniake 
him  feel  sad — for  your  sake,  John  Evans — that  you  should  be 
so  unfair.” 

She  leaned  her  forehead  on  her  hand,  and  was  silent.  A 
subdued  murmur  arose.  The  blind  man,  having  stood  irre¬ 
solute  for  a  moment,  began  to  make  for  the  door,  saying — 

“  I  think  I’d  better  go.  I  ain’t  wanted  here.” 

“  If  you  are  an  honest  man,  Mr.  Evans,”  returned  Marion, 
rising,  “you  will  sit  down  and  hear  the  case  out.” 

With  a  waving,  fin-like  motion  of  both  his  hands,  Evans  sank 
into  his  seat,  and  spoke  no  word. 

After  but  a  moment’s  silence,  she  resumed  a?  if  there  had 
been  no  interruption. 

“  That  he  should  sleep  then  during  the  storm  was  a  very 
different  thing  from  declining  to  assist  his  father  in  his  work¬ 
shop  ;  just  as  the  rebuking  of  the  sea  was  a  very  different 
thing  from  hiding  up  his  father’s  bad  work  in  miracles.  Had 
that  father  been  in  danger,  he  might  perhaps  have  aided  him 
as  he  did  the  disciples.  But — ■” 

“  Why  do  you  sa)  perhaps ,  grannie  ?  ”  interrupted  a  bright¬ 
eyed  boy  who  sat  on  the  hob  of  the  empty  grate.  “  Wouldn't 
he  help  his  father  as  soon  as  his  disciples  ?  ” 

“  Certainly —  if  it  was  good  for  his  father — certainly  not,  if  it 
was  not  good  for  him — therefore  I  say  perhaps.  —  But  now,”  she 
went  on,  turning  to  the  joiner,  “Mr.  Jarvis,  will  you  tell  me 
whether  you  think  the  work  of  the  carpenter’s  son  would  have 
been  in  any  way  distinguishable  from  that  of  another  man  ?  ” 

“  Well,  I  don’t  know,  grannie.  He  wouldn’t  want  to  be 
putting  of  a  private  mark  upon  it.  He  wouldn’t  want  to  be 


2  c6  The  Vicar's  Daughter. 

showing  of  it  off— would  he  ?  He’d  use  his  tools  like  another 
man,  anyhow.” 

“All  that  we  may  be  certain  of.  He  came  to  as  a  man,  to 
live  a  man’s  life  and  do  a  man’s  work.  But  just  think  a 
moment :  I  will  put  the  question  again  :  Do  you  suppose  you 
would  have  been  able  to  distinguish  his  work  from  that  of 
any  other  man  ?  ” 

A  silence  followed.  Jarvis  was  thinking.  He  and  the 
blind  man  were  of  the  few  that  can  think.  At  last  his  face 
brightened. 

“  Well,  grannie,”  he  said,  “  I  think  it  would  be  very  diffi¬ 
cult  in  anything  easy,  but  very  easy  in  anything  difficult.” 

He  laughed, — for  he  had  not  perceived  the  paradox  before 
uttering  it. 

“  Explain  yourself,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Jarvis.  I  am  not  sure 
that  I  understand  you,”  said  Marion. 

“I  mean  that,  in  an  easy  job,  which  any  fair  workman 
could  do  well  enough,  it  would  not  be  easy  to  tell  his  work. 
But  where  the  job  was  difficult,  it  would  be  so  much  better 
done,  that  it  would  not  be  difficult  to  see  the  better  hand 
in  it.” 

“  I  understand  you  then  to  indicate  that  the  chief  distinction 
would  lie  in  the  quality  of  the  work — that  whatever  he  did  he 
would  do  in  such  a  thorough  manner,  that,  over  the  whole  of 
what  he  turned  out — as  you  would  say— the  perfection  of  the 
work  would  be  a  striking  characteristic.  Is  that  it  ?  ” 

“That  is  what  I  do  mean,  grannie.” 

“  And  that  is  just  the  conclusion  I  had  come  to  myselfd 

“  /  should  like  to  say  just  one  word  to  it,  grannie,  so  be  you 
won’t  cut  up  crusty,”  said  the  blind  man. 

“  If  you  are  fair,  I  shan’t  be  crusty,  Mr.  Evans.  At  least  I 
hope  not,”  said  Marion. 

“Well,  it’s  this:  Mr.  Jarvis  he  say  as  how  the  jiner-work 
done  by  Jesus  Christ  would  be  better  done  than  e’er  another 
man  s — tip-top-fashion,  and  there  would  lie  the  differ.  Now 
it  do  seem  to  me  as  I’ve  got  no  call  to  come  to  that  ere  con- 


257 


A  Strange  Text, 

elusion.  You  been  a  tellin’  on  us,  grannie,  I  donno  how  long 
now,  as  how  Jesus  Christ  was  the  son  of  God,  and  that  he 
come  to  do  the  works  of  God — down  here  like,  afore  our  faces, 
that  we  might  see  God  at  work,  by  way  of.  Now  I  ha’ 
nothin’  to  say  agin  that :  it  may  be,  or  it  mayn’t  be — I  can’t 
tell.  But  if  that  be  the  way  on  it,  then  I  don’t  see  how  Mr. 
Jarvis  can  be  right;  the  two  don’t  curryspond — not  by  no 
means.  For  the  works  o’  God — there  ain’t  one  on  ’em  as  I 
can  see  downright  well  managed — tip-top  jiner’s  work,  as  I 
may  say ;  leastways,— now  stop  a  bit,  grannie ;  don’t  trip  a  man 
up,  and  then  say  as  he  fell  over  his  own  dog, — leastways,  I 
don’t  say  about  the  moon  an’  the  stars  an’  that ;  I  dessay  the 
sun  he  do  get  up  the  werry  moment  he’s  called  of  a  mornin’, 
an’  the  moon  when  she  ought  to  for  her  nightwork ; — I  ain’t 
no  ’stronomer  strawnry,  and  I  ain’t  heerd  no  complaints  about 
them  ;  but  I  do  say  as  how,  down  here,  we  ha’  got  most  un¬ 
common  bad  weather  more’n  at  times ;  and  the  walnuts  they 
turns  out,  every  now  an’  then,  full  o’  mere  dirt ;  an’  the  oranges 
awful.  There  ’ain’t  been  a  good  crop  o’  hay,  they  tells  me,  for 
many’s  the  year.  An’  i’  furren  parts,  what  wi’  earthquakes  an’ 
-wolcanies  an’  lions  an’  tigers,  an’  savages  as  eats  their  wisiters, 
an’  chimley-pots  blowin’  about,  an’  ships  goin’  down,  an’  fathers 
o’  families  choked  an’  drownded  an’  burnt  i’  coal-pits  by  the 
hundred — it  do  seem  to  me  that  if  his  jinerin’  hadn’t  been  tip¬ 
top,  it  would  ha’  been  but  like  the  rest  on  it.  There,  grannie ! 
Mind  I  mean  no  offence ;  an’  I  don’t  doubt  you  ha’  got  some- 
think  i’  your  weskit  pocket  as  ’ll  turn  it  all  topsy-turvy  in  a 
moment.  Anyhow  I  won’t  purtend  to  nothink,  and  that’s  how 
it  look  to  me.” 

“  I  admit,”  said  Marion,  “  that  the  objection  is  a  reasonable 
one.  But  why  do  you  put  it,  Mr.  Evans,  in  such  a  triumphant 
way,  as  if  you  were  rejoiced  to  think  it  admitted  of  no  answer, 
and  believed  the  world  would  be  ever  so  much  better  off  if  the 
storms  and  the  tigers  had  it  all  their  own  way,  and  there  were 
no  God  to  look  after  things?” 

“Now  you  ain’t  fair  to  me,  grannie.  Not  ’avin’  of  my  heye* 


25S 


The  Vicar’s  Daughter . 

sight  like  the  rest  on  ye,  I  may  be  a  bit  fond  of  a  harguyment ; 
but  I  tries  to  hit  fair,  and  when  I  hears  what  ain’t  logic,  I  can 
no  more  help  cornin’  down  upon  it,  than  I  can  help  breathin’  the 
air  o’  heaven.  And  why  shouldn’t  I  ?  There  ain’t  no  law  ag'n 
a  harguyment.  An’  more  an’  over,  it  do  seem  to  me  as  how 
you  and  Mr.  Jarvis  is  wrong  i’  this  harguyment.” 

“  If  I  was  too  sharp  upon  you,  Mr.  Evans,  and  I  may  have 
been,”  said  Marion,  “  I  beg  your  pardon.” 

“  It’s  granted,  grannie.” 

“  I  don’t  mean,  you  know,  that  I  give  in  to  what  you  say — * 
not  one  bit.” 

“  I  didn’t  expect  it  of  you.  I’m  a-waitin’  here  for  you  to 
knock  me  down.” 

“  I  don’t  think  a  mere  victory  is  worth  the  breath  spent 
upon  it,”  said  Marion.  “  But  we  should  all  be  glad  to  get  or 
give  more  light  upon  any  subject,  if  it  be  by  losing  ever  so  many 
arguments.  Allow  me  just  to  put  a  question  or  two  to  Mr. 
Jarvis,  because  he’s  a  joiner  himself — and  that’s  a  great  com¬ 
fort  to  me  to-night : — What  would  you  say,  Mr.  Jarvis,  of  a 
master  who  planed  the  timber  he  used  for  scaffolding,  and  tied 
the  cross  pieces  with  ropes  of  silk  ?  ” 

“  I  should  say  he  was  a  fool,  grannie — not  only  for  losin’ 
of  his  money  and  his  labour,  but  for  weakenin’  of  his  scaffoldin’ 
— sum  mat  like  the  old  throne-maker  i’  that  chapter,  I  should 
say.” 

“What’s  the  object  of  a  scaffold,  Mr.  Jarvis?” 

“To  get  at  something  else  by  means  of — say  build  a  house.” 

“Then  so  long  as  the  house  was  going  up  all  right,  the 
probability  is  there  wouldn’t  be  much  amiss  with  the  scaf¬ 
fold?  You  will  allow  that  I  suppose.” 

“  Certainly — provided  it  stood  till  it  was  taken  down.” 

“  And  now,  Mr.  Evans,”  she  said  next,  turning  to  the  blind 
man,  “  I  am  going  to  take  the  liberty  of  putting  a  question  or 
two  to  you.” 

“  All  right,  grannie.  Fire  away.” 

“Will  you  tell  me  then  what  the  object  of  this  world  is?” 


A  Strange  Text .  259 

“Well,  most  people  makes  it  their  object  to  get  money,  ana 
make  theirselves  comfortable.” 

“  But  you  don’t  think  that  is  what  the  world  was  made  for?  ” 

“  Oh  !  as  to  that,  how  should  I  know,  grannie  ?  And  not 
knowin’,  I  won’t  say.” 

“If  you  saw  a  scaffold,”  said  Marion,  turning  again  to  Jarvis, 
“would  you  be  in  danger  of  mistaking  it  for  a  permanent 
erection  ?  ” 

“  Nobody  wouldn’t  be  such  a  fool,”  he  answered.  “  The 
look  of  it  would  tell  you  that.” 

“  You  wouldn’t  complain  then  if  it  should  be  a  little  out  of 
the  square,  and  if  there  should  be  no  windows  in  it  ?  ” 

Jarvis  only  laughed. 

“  Mr.  Evans,”  Marion  went  on,  turning  again  to  the  blind 
man,  “  do  you  think  the  design  of  this  world  was  to  make  men 
comfortable  ?  ” 

“  If  it  was,  it  don’t  seem  to  ha’  succeeded,”  answered 
Evans. 

“  And  you  complain  of  that — don’t  you  ?  ” 

“Well,  yes,  rather” — said  the  blind  man,  adding,  no  doubt 
as  he  recalled  the  former  part  of  the  evening’s  talk — “  for 
harguyment,  ye  know,  grannie.” 

“  You  think,  perhaps,  that  God,  having  gone  so  far  to  make 
this  world  a  plea.sant  and  comfortable  place  to  live  in,  might 
have  gone  farther  and  made  it  quite  pleasant  and  comfortable 
for  everybody  ?  ” 

“  Whoever  could  make  it  at  all  could  ha’  done  that, 
grannie.” 

“  Then  as  he  hasn’t  done  it,  the  probability  is  he  didn’t 
mean  to  do  it  ?  ” 

“Of course.  That’s  what  I  complain  of.” 

“  Then  he  meant  to  do  something  else  ?  ” 

“  It  looks  like  it.” 

“The  whole  affair  has  an  unfinished  look,  you  think?” 

“  I  just  do.” 

“  What  if  it  were  not  meant  to  stand  then  ?  What  if  it  weire 


s  2 


260  The  Vicar's  Daughter. 

meant  only  for  a  temporary  assistance  in  carrying  out  some¬ 
thing  finished  and  lasting,  and  of  unspeakably  more  impor¬ 
tance  ?  Suppose  God  were  building  a  palace  for  you,  and  had 
set  up  a  scaffold,  upon  which  he  wanted  you  to  help  him  ; — 
would  it  be  reasonable  in  you  to  complain  that  you  didn’t  find 
the  scaffold  at  all  a  comfortable  place  to  live  in  ?— that  it 
was  draughty  and  cold  ?  This  world  is  that  scaffold  ;  and  if 
you  were  busy  carrying  stones  and  mortar  for  the  palace,  you 
would  be  glad  of  all  the  cold  to  cool  the  glow  of  your 
labour.” 

“  I’m  sure  I  work  hard  enough  when  I  get  a  job  as  my 
heyesight  will  enable  me  to  do,”  said  Evans,  missing  the  spirit 
of  her  figure. 

“Yes;  I  believe  you  do.  But  what  will  all  the  labour  of  a 
workman  who  does  not  fall  in  with  the  designs  of  the  builder 
come  to  ?  You  may  say  you  don’t  understand  the  design : 
will  you  say  also  that  you  are  under  no  obligation  to  put  so 
much  faith  in  the  builder — who  is  said  to  be  your  God  and 
Father — as  to  do  the  thing  he  tells  you?  Instead  of  working 
away  at  the  palace,  like  men,  will  you  go  on  tacking  bits  of 
matting  and  old  carpet  about  the  corners  of  the  scaffold  to  keep 
the  wind  off,  while  that  same  wind  keeps  tearing  them  away 
and  scattering  them  ?  You  keep  trying  to  live  in  a  scaffold, 
•which  not  all  you  could  do  to  all  eternity  would  make  a  house 
of.  You  see  what  I  mean,  Mr.  Evans  ?” 

“  Well,  not  ezackly,”  replied  the  blind  man. 

“  I  mean  that  God  wants  to  build  you  a  house  whereof  the 
walls  shall  be  goodness :  you  want  a  house  whereof  the  walls 
shall  be  comfort.  But  God  knows  that  such  walls  cannot  be 
built — that  that  kind  of  stone  crumbles  away  in  the  foolish 
workman’s  hands.  He  would  make  you  comfortable ;  but 
neither  is  that  his  first  object,  nor  can  it  be  gained  without  the 
first,  which  is  to  make  you  good.  He  loves  you  so  much  that 
he  would  infinitely  rather  have  you  good  and  uncomfortable — ■ 
for  then  he  could  take  you  to  his  heart  as  his  own  children  — 
than  comfortable  and  not  good,  for  then  he  could  not  come 


26i 


A  Strange  Text, 

near  you,  or  give  you  anything  he  counted  worth  h;  ring  for 
himself  or  worth  giving  to  you.” 

“So,”  said  Jarvis,  “  you’ve  just  brought  us  round,  grannie, 
to  the  same  thing  as  before.” 

“  I  believe  so,”  returned  Marion.  “  It  comes  to  this,  that 
when  God  would  build  a  palace  for  himself  to  dwell  in  with 
his  children,  he  does  not  want  his  scaffold  so  constructed  that 
they  shall  be  able  to  make  a  house  of  it  for  themselves,  and 
live  like  apes  instead  of  angels.” 

“  But  if  God  can  do  anything  he  please,”  said  Evans,  “  he 
might  as  well  make  us  good,  and  there  would  be  an  end 
of  it.” 

“  That  is  just  what  he  is  doing,”  returned  Marion.  “  Per* 
haps,  by  giving  them  perfect  health  and  everything  they  wanted, 
with  absolute  good  temper,  and  making  them  very  fond  of 
each  other  besides,  God  might  have  provided  himself  a  people 
he  would  have  had  no  difficulty  in  governing,  and  amongst 
whom,  in  consequence,  there  would  have  been  no  crime  and 
no  struggle  or  suffering.  But  I  have  known  a  dog  with  more 
goodness  than  that  would  come  to.  We  cannot  be  good  with¬ 
out  having  consented  to  be  made  good.  God  shows  us  the 
good  and  the  bad ;  urges  us  to  be  good ;  wakes  good  thoughts 
and  desires  in  us;  helps  our  spirit  with  his  spirit,  our  thought 
with  his  thought ;  but  we  must  yield ;  we  must  turn  to  him  ; 
we  must  consent,  yes,  try  to  be  made  good.  If  we  could  grow 
good  without  trying,  it  would  be  a  poor  goodness ;  zue  should 
not  be  good  after  all ;  at  best  we  should  only  be  not  bad.  God 
wants  us  to  choose  to  be  good,  and  so  be  partakers  of  his 
holiness;  he  would  have  us  lay  hold  of  him.  He  who  has 
given  his  Son  to  suffer  for  us,  will  make  us  suffer  too— bitterly, 
if  needful — that  we  may  bethink  ourselves  and  turn  to  him. 
He  would  make  us  as  good  as  good  can  be-^that  is,  perfectly 
good ;  and  therefore  will  rouse  us  to  take  the  needful  hand  in 
the  work  ourselves — rouse  us  by  discomforts  innumerable. 

“  You  see  then,  it  is  not  inconsistent  with  the  apparent 
imperfections  of  the  creation  around  us,  that  Jesus  should  have 


262 


The  Vicars  Daughter . 

done  the  best  possible  carpenter’s  work  ;  for  those  very  imper¬ 
fections  are  actually  through  their  imperfection  the  means  of 
carrying  out  the  higher  creation  God  has  in  view,  and  at  which 
he  is  working  all  the  time. 

“Now  let  me  read  you  what  King  David  thought  upon  this 
question.” 

She  read  the  hundred  and  seventh  psalm.  Then  they  had 
some  singing,  in  which  the  children  took  a  delightful  part.  I 
have  seldom  heard  children  sing  pleasantly.  In  Sunday-schools 
I  have  always  found  their  voices  painfully  harsh.  But  Marion 
made  her  children  restrain  their  voices  and  sing  softly,  wThich 
had,  she  said,  an  excellent  moral  effect  on  themselves,  all 
squalling  and  screeching,  whether  in  art  or  morals,  being 
ruinous  to  either. 

Towards  the  close  of  the  singing,  Roger  and  I  slipped  out. 
We  had,  all  but  tacitly,  agreed  it  would  be  best  to  make  no 
apology,  but  just  vanish,  and  come  again  with  Percivale  the 
following  Sunday. 

The  greater  part  of  the  way  home  wre  wralked  in  silence. 

“  What  did  you  think  of  that,  Roger  ?  ”  I  asked  at  length. 

“  Quite  Socratic  as  to  method,”  he  answered,  and  said  no 
moie. 

I  sent  a  full  report  of  the  evening  to  my  father,  who  was 
delighted  with  it,  although  of  course  much  was  lost  in  the  re¬ 
porting  of  the  mere  words,  not  to  mention  the  absence  of  her 
sweet  fare  and  shining  eyes,  of  her  quiet,  earnest,  musical 
voice.  My  father  kept  the  letter,  and  that  k  how  I  am  able  to 
give  the  present  report. 


About  Servants . 


263 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

ABOUT  SERVANTS. 

I  went  to  call  on  Lady  Bernard  the  next  day — for  there  was 
one  subject  on  which  I  could  better  talk  with  her  than  with 
Marion,  and  that  subject  was  Marion  herself.  In  the  course  of 
our  conversation  I  said  that  I  had  had  more  than  usual  need  of 
such  a  lesson  as  she  gave  us  the  night  before — I  had  been,  and 
indeed  still  was,  so  vexed  with  my  nurse. 

“  What  is  the  matter  ?  ”  asked  Lady  Bernard. 

“  She  has  given  me  warning,”  I  answered. 

“  She  has  been  with  you  some  time — has  she  not  ?  n 

“Ever  since  we  were  married.” 

“  What  reason  does  she  give  ?  ” 

“  Oh  !  she  wants  to  better  herself,  of  course,”  I  replied — in 
such  a  tone,  that  Lady  Bernard  rejoined : 

“  And  why  shoi^ld  she  not  better  herself?  ” 

“  But  she  has  such  a  false  notion  of  bettering  herself !  I  am 
confident  what  she  wants  will  do  anything  but  better  her — if 
she  gets  it.” 

“  What  is  her  notion  then?  Are  you  sure  you  have  got  at 

the  real  one? ” 

* 

“  I  believe  I  have  now.  When  I  asked  her  first,  she  said 
she  was  very  comfortable,  and  condescended  to  inform  me  that 
she  had  nothing  against  either  me  or  her  master,  but  thought 
it  was  time  she  was  having  more  wages,  for  a  friend  of  hers, 
who  had  left  home  a  year  after  herself,  was  having  two  pounds 
more  than  she  had.” 

“It  is  very  natural,  and  certainly  not  wrong,  that  she  should 
wish  for  more  wages.” 

“  I  told  her  she  need  not  have  taken  such  a  round-about 
way  of  asking  for  an  advance,  and  said  I  would  raise  her 
wages  with  pleasure.  But  instead  of  receiving  the  announce- 


264 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter . 

ment  with  any  sign  of  satisfaction,  she  seemed  put  out  by  it ; 
and  after  some  considerable  amount  of  incoherence,  blurted 
out  that  the  place  was  dull,  and  she  wanted  a  change.  At 
length,  however,  I  got  at  her  real  reason,  which  was  simply  am¬ 
bition  :  she  wanted  to  rise  in  the  world— to  get  a  place  where 
men-servants  were  kept — a  more  fashionable  place  in  fact.” 

16  A  very  mistaken  ambition  certainly,”  said  Lady  Bernard, 
(i  but  one  which  would  be  counted  natural  enough  in  any 
other  line  of  life.  Had  she  given  you  ground  for  imagining 
higher  aims  in  her?  ” 

“  She  had  been  so  long  with  us  that  I  thought  she  must  have 
some  regard  for  us.” 

“  She  has  probably  a  good  deal  more  than  she  is  aware  of. 
But  change  is  as  needful  to  some  minds  for  their  education  as 
an  even  tenor  of  life  is  to  others.  Probably  she  has  got  all 
the  good  she  is  capable  of  receiving  from  you,  and  there  may 
be  some  one  ready  to  take  her  place  for  whom  you  will  be  able 
to  do  more.  However  inconvenient  it  may  be  for  you  to 
change,  the  more  young  people  who  pass  through  your  house 
the  better.” 

“  If  it  were  really  for  her  good,  I  hope  I  shouldn’t  mind.” 

“  You  cannot  tell  what  may  be  needful  to  cause  the  seed 
you  have  sown  to  germinate.  It  may  be  necessary  for  her  to 
pass  to  another  class  in  the  school  of  life,  before  she  can  realize 
what  she  learned  in  yours.” 

I  was  silent,  for  I  was  beginning  to  feel  ashamed,  and  Lady 
Bernard  went  on. 

“  When  I  hear  mistresses  lamenting  over  some  favourite 
servant  as  marrying  certain  misery  in  exchange  for  a  comfort¬ 
able  home  with  plenty  to  eat  and  drink  and  wear,  I  always 
think  of  the  other  side  to  it,  namely,  how,  through  the  instincts 
of  his  own  implanting,  God  is  urging  her  to  a  path  in  which, 
by  passing  through  the  fires  and  waters  of  suffering,  she  may 
be  stung  to  the  life  of  a  true  humanity.  And  such  suffering  is 
far  more  ready  to  work  its  perfect  work  on  a  girl  who  has 
passed  through  a  family  like  yours.” 


About  Servants . 


265 


u  I  wouldn’t  say  a  word  to  keep  her  if  she  were  going  to  be 
married,”  I  said  ;  “  but  you  will  allow  there  is  good  reason 
to  fear  she  will  be  no  better  for  such  a  change  as  she  desires.” 

“  You  have  good  reason  to  fear,  my  child,”  said  Lady  Bernard, 
smiling  so  as  to  take  all  sting  out  of  the  reproof — “  that  you 
have  too  little  faith  in  the  God  who  cares  for  your  maid  as  for 
you.  It  is  not  indeed  likely  that  she  will  have  such  help  as 
yours  where  she  goes  next ;  but  the  loss  of  it  may  throw  her 
back  on  herself  and  bring  out  her  individuality,  which  is  her 
conscience.  Still  I  am  far  from  wondering  at  your  fear  for 
her — knowing  well  what  dangers  she  may  fall  into.  Shall  I 
tell  you  what  first  began  to  open  my  eyes  to  the  evils  of  a  large 
establishment  ?  Wishing  to  get  rid  of  part  of  the  weight  of 
my  affairs,  and  at  the  same  time  to  assist  a  relative  who  was 
in  want  of  employment,  I  committed  to  him,  along  with  larger 
matters,  the  oversight  of  my  household  expenses,  and  found 
that  he  saved  me  the  whole  of  his  salary.  This  will  be  easily 
understood  from  a  single  fact.  Soon  after  his  appointment,  he 
called  on  a  tradesman  to  pay  him  his  bill.  The  man,  taking 
him  for  a  new  butler,  offered  him  the  same  discount  he  had 
been  in  the  habit  of  giving  his  supposed  predecessor — namely 
twenty-five  per  cent. — a  discount,  I  need  not  say,  never  in¬ 
tended  to  reach  my  knowledge  any  more  than  my  purse.  The 
fact  was  patent — I  had  been  living  in  a  hotel,  of  which  I  not 
only  paid  the  rent,  but  paid  the  landlord  for  cheating  me. 
With  such  a  head  to  an  establishment,  you  may  judge  what  the 
members  may  become.” 

“  I  remember  an  amusing  experience  my  brother-in-law  Roger 
Percivale  once  had  of  your  household,”  I  said. 

“  I  also  remember  it  perfectly,”  she  returned.  That  was 
how  I  came  to  know  him.  But  I  knew  something  of  his  family 
long  before.  I  remember  his  grandfather  a  great  buyer  of 
pictures  and  marbles.” 

Lady  Bernard  here  gave  me  the  story  from  her  point  of  view, 
but  Roger’s  narrative  being  of  necessity  the  more  complete,  I 
tell  the  tale  as  he  told  it  me. 


266 


The  Vicar's  Daughter . 

At  the  time  of  the  occurrence,  he  was  assisting  Mr.  F.,  the 
well-known  sculptor,  and  had  taken  a  share  in  both  the  model¬ 
ling  and  the  carving  of  a  bust  of  Lady  Bernard’s  father.  When 
it  was  finished  and  Mr.  F.  was  about  to  take  it  home,  he  asked 
Roger  to  accompany  him  and  help  him  to  get  it  safe  into  the 
house  and  properly  placed. 

Roger  and  the  butler  between  them  carried  it  to  the  drawing¬ 
room,  where  were  Lady  Bernard  and  a  company  of  her  friends, 
whom  she  had  invited  to  meet  Mr.  F.  at  lunch,  and  see  the 
bust.  There  being  no  pedestal  yet  ready,  Mr.  F.  made  choice 
of  a  certain  small  table  for  it  to  stand  upon,  and  then  accom¬ 
panied  her  ladyship  and  her  other  guests  to  the  dining-room, 
leaving  Roger  to  uncover  the  bust,  place  it  in  the  proper  light, 
and  do  whatever  more  might  be  necessary  to  its  proper  effect 
on  the  company  when  they  should  return.  As  she  left  the 
room,  Lady  Bernard  told  Roger  to  ring  for  a  servant  to  clear 
the  table  for  him,  and  render  what  other  assistance  he  might 
want.  He  did  so.  A  lackey  answered  the  bell,  and  Roger 
requested  him  to  remove  the  things  from  the  table.  The  man 
left  the  room,  and  did  not  return.  Roger  therefore  cleared 
and  moved  the  table  himself,  and  with  difficulty  got  the  bust 
upon  it.  Finding  then  several  stains  upon  the  pure  half¬ 
transparency  of  the  marble,  he  rang  the  bell  for  a  basin  of  water 
and  a  sponge.  Another  man  appeared,  looked  into  the  room, 
and  went  away.  He  rang  once  more,  and  yet  another  servant 
came.  This  last  condescended  to  hear  him,  and,  informing 
him  that  he  could  get  what  he  wanted  in  the  scullery,  vanished 
in  his  turn.  By  this  time  Roger  confesses  to  have  been  rather 
in  a  rage;  but  what  could  he  do  ?  Least  of  all  allow  Mr.  F.’s 
work,  and  the  likeness  of  her  ladyship’s  father  to  make  its 
debut  with  a  spot  on  its  nose;  therefore,  seeing  he  could  not 
otherwise  procure  what  was  necessary,  he  set  out  in  quest  of 
the  unknown  appurtenances  of  the  kitchen. 

It  is  unpleasant  to  find  oneself  astray,  even  in  a  moderately 
sized  house,  and  Roger  did  not  at  all  relish  wandering  about 
the  huge  place,  with  no  finger-posts  to  keep  him  in  its  business' 


About  Servants . 


267 


thoroughfares,  not  to  speak  of  directing  him  to  the  remttest 
recesses  of  a  house  “  full/*  as  Chaucer  says,  “  of  crenkles.” 
At  last,  however,  he  found  himself  at  the  door  of  the  servants’ 
hall.  Two  men  were  lying  on  their  backs  on  benches,  with 
their  knees  above  their  heads  in  the  air;  a  third  was  engaged 
in  emptying  a  pewter  pot,  between  his  draughts  tossing  facetiae 
across  its  mouth  to  a  damsel  who  was  removing  the  remains  of 
some  private  luncheon  ;  and  a  fourth  sat  in  one  of  the  windows 
reading  Bell's  Life.  Roger  took  it  all  in  at  a  glance,  while  to 
one  of  the  giants  supine,  or  rather  to  a  perpendicular  pair  of 
white  stockings,  he  preferred  his  request  for  a  basin  and  a 
sponge.  Once  more  he  was  informed  that  he  would  find  whe£ 
he  wanted  in  the  scullery.  There  was  no  time  to  waste  on  un¬ 
availing  demands,  therefore  he  only  begged  further  to  be  directed 
how  to  find  it.  The  fellow,  without  raising  his  head  or  lower¬ 
ing  his  knees,  jabbered  out  such  instructions  as,  from  the 
rapidity  with  which  he  delivered  them,  were,  if  not  unintelligible, 
at  all  events  incomprehensible,  and  Roger  had  to  set  out  again 
on  the  quest,  only  not  quite  so  bewildered  as  before.  He 
found  a  certain  long  passage  mentioned,  however,  and  happily, 
before  he  arrived  at  the  end  of  it,  met  a  maid,  who  with  the 
utmost  civility  gave  him  full  instructions  to  find  the  place.  The 
scullery-maid  was  equally  civil,  and  Roger  returned  with  basin 
and  sponge  to  the  drawing-room,  where  he  speedily  removed 
the  too  troublesome  stains  from  the  face  of  the  marble. 

When  the  company  re-entered,  Mr.  F.  saw  at  once  from  the 
expression  and  bearing  of  Roger  that  something  had  happened 
to  discompose  him,  and  asked  him  what  was  amiss.  Roger 
having  briefly  informed  him,  Mr.  F.  at  once  recounted  the  facts 
to  Lady  Bernard,  who  immediately  requested  a  full  statement 
from  Roger  himself,  and  heard  the  whole  story. 

She  walked  straight  to  the  bell,  and  ordered  up  every  one  of 
her  domestics,  from  the  butler  to  the  scullery-maid. 

Without  one  hasty  word,  or  one  bodily  sign  of  the  anger  she 
was  in,  except  the  flashing  of  her  eyes,  she  told  them  she  could 
not  have  had  a  suspicion  that  such  insolence  was  possible  in 


268 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter, 

\ 

her  house;  that  they  had  disgraced  her  in  her  own  eyes,  a3 
having  gathered  such  people  about  her ;  that  she  would  not 
add  to  Mr.  Percivale’s  annoyance  by  asking  him  to  point  out 
the  guilty  persons,  but  that  they  might  assure  themselves  she 
would  henceforth  keep  both  eyes  and  ears  open,  and  if  the 
slightest  thing  of  the  sort  happened  again,  she  would  most  as¬ 
suredly  dismiss  every  one  of  them  at  a  moment’s  warning.  She 
then  turned  to  Roger  and  said : 

“  Mr.  Percivale,  I  beg  your  pardon  for  the  insults  you  have 
received  from  my  servants.” 

“  I  did  think,”  she  said,  as  she  finished  telling  me  the  story, 
“  to  dismiss  them  all  on  the  spot,  but  was  deterred  by  the  fear 
of  injustice.  The  next  morning,  however,  four  or  five  of  them 
gave  my  housekeeper  warning :  I  gave  orders  that  they  should 
leave  the  house  at  once,  and  from  that  day,  I  set  about  reducing 
my  establishment.  My  principal  objects  were  two — first,  that 
my  servants  might  have  more  work ;  and  second,  that  I  might 
be  able  to  know  something  of  every  one  of  them  ;  for  one  thing 
I  saw— that  until  I  ruled  my  own  house  well,  I  had  no  right 
to  go  trying  to  do  good  out  of  doors.  I  think  I  do  know  a 
little  of  the  nature  and  character  of  every  soul  under  my  roof 
now ;  and  I  am  more  and  more  confident  that  nothing  of  real 
and  lasting  benefit  can  be  done  for  a  class  except  through  per¬ 
sonal  influence  upon  the  individual  persons  who  compose  it — 
such  influence  I  mean,  as  at  the  very  least  sets  for  Chris tianity.” 


About  Per  civ  ale. 


269 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

ABOUT  PERCIVALE. 

I  should  like  much,  before  in  my  narrative  approaching  a  cer¬ 
tain  hard  season  we  had  to  encounter,  to  say  a  few  words 
concerning  my  husband,  if  I  only  knew  how.  I  find  women 
differ  much,  both  in  the  degree  and  manner  in  which  their  feel¬ 
ings  will  permit  them  to  talk  about  their  husbands.  I  have 
known  women  set  a  whole  community  against  their  husbands 
by  the  way  in  which  they  trumpeted  their  praises  ;  and  I  have 
known  one  woman  set  everybody  against  herself  by  the  way  in 
which  she  published  her  husband’s  faults.  I  find  it  difficult  10 
believe  either  sort.  To  praise  one’s  husband  is  so  like  praising 
oneself,  that  to  me  it  seems  immodest,  and  subject  to  the  same 
suspicion  as  self-laudation ;  while  to  blame  one’s  husband  even 
justly  and  openly  seems  to  me  to  border  upon  treachery  itself. 
How  then  am  I  to  discharge  a  sort  of  half  duty  my  father  has 
laid  upon  me  by  what  he  has  said  in  The  Seaboard  Parish 
concerning  my  husband’s  opinions  ?  My  father  is  one  of  the 
few  really  large-minded  men  I  have  yet  known ;  but  I  am  not 
certain  that  he  has  done  Percivale  justice.  At  the  same  time, 
if  he  has  not,  Percivale  himself  is  partly  to  blame,  inasmuch 
as  he  never  took  pains  to  show  my  father  what  he  was  ;  for 
had  he  done  so,  my  father  of  all  men  would  have  understood 
him.  On  the  other  hand,  this  fault,  if  such  it  was,  could  have 
sprung  only  from  my  husband’s  modesty,  and  his  horror  of 
possibly  producing  an  impression  on  my  father’s  mind  more 
lavouiable  than  correct.  It  is  all  right  now,  however. 

Still  my  difficulty  remains  as  to  how  I  am  to  write  about 
him.  I  must  encourage  myself  with  the  consideration  that 
none  but  our  own  friends,  with  whom,  whether  they  understood 
us  or  not,  we  are  safe,  will  know  to  whom  the  veiled  narrative 
points. 


270 


The  Vicar's  Daughter . 

Eut  some  acute  reader  may  say, — 

“You  describe  your  husband’s  picture  :  he  will  be  known 
by  that.” 

In  this  matter  I  have  been  cunning — I  hope  not  deceitful, 
inasmuch  as  I  now  reveal  my  cunning.  Instead  of  describing 
any  real  picture  of  his,  I  have  always  substituted  one  he  has 
only  talked  about.  The  picture  actually  associated  with  the 
facts  related,  is  not  the  picture  I  have  described. 

Although  my  husband  left  the  impression  on  my  father’s 
mind,  lasting  for  a  long  time,  that  he  had  some  definite  repug¬ 
nance  to  Christianity  itself,  I  had  been  soon  satisfied,  perhaps 
from  his  being  more  open  with  me,  that  certain  unworthy  re¬ 
presentations  of  Christianity,  coming  to  him  writh  authority, 
had  cast  discredit  upon  the  whole  idea  of  it.  In  the  first  year 
or  two  of  our  married  life  we  had  many  talks  on  the  subject, 
and  I  was  astonished  to  find  what  things  he  imagined  to  be 
acknowledged  essentials  of  Christianity,  which  have  no  place 
whatever  in  the  New  Testament;  and  I  think  it  was  in  pro¬ 
portion  as  he  came  to  see  his  own  misconceptions,  that,  although 
there  was  little  or  no  outward  difference  to  be  perceived  in  him, 
I  could  more  and  more  clearly  distinguish  an  under-current  of 
thought  and  feeling  setting  towards  the  faith  which  Christianity 
preaches.  He  said  little  or  nothing  even  when  I  attempted 
to  draw  him  out  on  the  matter,  for  he  was  almost  morbidly 
careful  not  to  seem  to  know  anything  he  did  not  know,  or  to 
appear  what  he  was  not.  The  most  I  could  get  out  of  him 
was  —  but  I  had  better  give  a  little  talk  I  had  with  him  on  one 
occasion.  It  was  some  time  before  we  began  to  go  to  Marion’s 
on  a  Sunday  evening,  and  I  had  asked  him  to  go  with  me  to  a 
certain  little  chapel  in  the  neighbourhood. 

“  What !  ”  he  said  merrily  ;  “  the  daughter  of  a  clergyman  be 
seen  going  to  a  conventicle?” 

“  If  I  did  it,  I  wrould  be  seen  doing  it,”  I  answered. 

“  Don’t  you  know  that  the  man  is  no  conciliatory,  or  even 
mild  dissenter,  but  a  decided  enemy  to  Church  and  State  and 
all  that  ?  ”  pursued  Percivale. 

\ 


About  Per  civ  ale. 


271 


“  I  don’t  care,”  I  returned.  “ I  know  nothing  about  it. 
What  I  know  is,  that  he’s  a  poet  and  a  prophet  both  in  one. 
He  stirs  up  my  heart  within  me,  and  makes  me  long  to  be  good. 
He  is  no  orator,  and  yet  breaks  into  bursts  of  eloquence  such 
as  none  of  the  studied  orators,  to  whom  you  profess  so  great 
an  aversion,  could  ever  reach.” 

“You  may  well  be  right  there.  It  is  against  nature  for  a 
speaker  to  be  eloquent  throughout  his  discourse,  and  the  false 
will  of  course  quench  the  true.  I  don’t  mind  going  if  you  wish 
it.  I  suppose  he  believes  what  he  says,  at  least.” 

“  Not  a  doubt  of  it.  He  could  not  speak  as  he  does  from 
less  than  a  thorough  belief.” 

“  Do  you  mean  to  say,  Wynnie,  that  he  is  sure  of  everything 
— I  don’t  want  to  urge  an  unreasonable  question — but  is  he 
sure  that  the  story  of  the  New  Testament  is  in  the  main 
actual  fact?  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  trouble  your  faith, 
but — ” 

“  My  father  says,”  I  interrupted,  “  that  a  true  faith  is  like 
the  pool  of  Bethesda  :  it  is  when  troubled  that  it  shows  its 
healing  power.” 

“  That  depends  on  where  the  trouble  comes  from,  perhaps,” 
said  Percivale. 

“  Anyhow,”  I  answered,  “  it  is  only  that  which  cannot  be 
shaken  that  shall  remain.” 

“  Well,  I  will  tell  you  what  seems  to  me  a  very  common- 
sense  difficulty.  How  is  any  one  to  be  sure  of  the  things  there 
recorded?  I  cannot  imagine  a  man  of  our  time  absolutely 
certain  of  them.  If  you  tell  me  I  have  testimony,  I  answer, 
that  the  testimony  itself  requires  testimony.  I  never  even  saw 
the  people  who  bear  it,  have  just  as  good  reason  to  doubt  their 
existence  as  that  of  him  concerning  whom  they  bear  it,  have 
positively  no  means  of  verifying  it,  and  indeed  have  so  little 
confidence  in  all  that  is  called  evidence,  knowing  how  it  can 
be  twisted,  that  I  should  distrust  any  conclusion  I  might  seem 
about  to  come  to  on  the  one  side  or  the  other.  It  does  appear 
to  me  that  if  the  thing  were  of  God,  he  would  have  taken  rare 


272 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter* 

that  it  should  be  possible  for  an  honest  man  to  place  a  hearty 
confidence  in  its  record.” 

He  had  never  talked  to  me  so  openly,  and  I  took  it  as  a  sign 
that  he  had  been  thinking  more  of  these  things  than  hitherto. 
I  felt  it  a  serious  matter  to  have  to  answer  such  words,  for 
how  could  I  have  any  better  assurance  of  that  external  kind 
than  Percivale  himself?  That  I  was  in  the  same  intellectual 
position,  however,  enabled  me  the  better  to  understand  him. 
For  a  short  time  I  was  silent,  while  he  regarded  me  with  a 
look  of  concern — fearful,  I  fancied,  lest  he  should  have  involved 
me  in  his  own  perplexity. 

“  Isn’t  it  possible,  Percivale,”  I  said,  “  that  God  may  not 
care  so  much  for  beginning  at  that  end  ?  ” 

“  I  don’t  quite  understand  you,  Wynnie,”  he  returned. 

“A  man  might  believe  every  fact  recorded  concerning  our 
Lord,  and  yet  not  have  the  faith  in  him  that  God  wishes  him 
to  have.” 

“  Yes,  certainly.  But  will  you  say  the  converse  of  that  is 
true  ?  ” 

“  Explain,  please.” 

“  Will  you  say  a  man  may  have  the  faith  God  cares  for  with¬ 
out  the  faith  you  say  he  does  not  care  for  ?  ” 

“  I  didn’t  say  that  God  does  not  care  about  our  having  as¬ 
surance  of  the  facts;  for  surely  if  everything  depends  on  those 
facts,  much  will  depend  on  the  degree  of  our  assurance  con¬ 
cerning  them.  I  only  expressed  a  doubt  whether  in  the  present 
age  he  cares  that  we  should  have  that  assurance  first.  Perhaps 
he  means  it  to  be  the  result  of  the  higher  kind  of  faith  which 
rests  in  the  will.” 

“  I  don’t  at  the  moment  see  how  the  higher  faith,  as  you  call 
it,  can  precede  the  lower.” 

“  It  seems  to  me  possible  enough.  For  what  is  the  test  of 
discipleship  the  Lord  lays  down  ?  Is  it  not  obedience  ?  6  If 

ye  love  me,  keep  my  commandments.’  i  If  a  man  love  me,  he 
will  keep  my  commandments.’  1 1  never  knew  you  :  depart 
from  me.  ye  workers  of  iniquity.’  Suppose  a  man  feels  in  him- 


\ 


About  Paxiz ale. 


2/3 


self  that  he  must  have  some  saviour  or  perish  ;  suppose  he 
feels  drawn,  by  conscience,  by  admiration,  by  early  memories, 
to  the  form  of  Jesus  dimly  seen  through  the  mists  of  ages; 
suppose  he  cannot  be  sure  there  ever  wa-s  such  a  man,  but 
reads  about  him,  and  ponders  over  the  words  attributed  to  him 
until  he  feels  they  are  the  right  thing  whether  he  said  them  or 
not,  and  that  if  he  could  but  be  sure  there  were  such  a  being, 
he  would  believe  in  him  with  heart  and  soul ;  suppose  also  that 
he  comes  upon  the  words,  ‘  If  any  man  is  willing  to  do  the  will 
of  the  Father,  he  shall  know  whether  I  speak  of  myself  or  he 
sent  me suppose  all  these  things,  might  not  the  man  then 
say  to  himself,  ‘  I  cannot  tell  whether  all  this  is  true,  but  I 
know  nothing  that  seems  half  so  good,  and  I  will  try  to  do  the 
will  of  the  Father  in  the  hope  of  the  promised  knowledge’  ?  Do 
you  think  God  would  or  would  not  count  that  to  the  man  for 
faith  ?  ” 

I  had  no  more  to  say,  and  a  silence  followed.  After  a  pause 
of  some  duration,  Percivale  said, — 

“  I  will  go  with  you,  my  dear,”  and  that  was  all  his  answer. 

When  we  came  out  of  the  little  chapel— the  same  into  which 
Marion  had  stepped  on  that  evening  so  memorable  to  her — we 
walked  homeward  in  silence,  and  reached  our  own  door  ere  a 
word  was  spoken.  But  when  I  went  to  take  off  my  things, 
Percivale  followed  me  into  the  room  and  said, — 

“  Whether  that  man  is  certain  of  the  facts  or  not,  I  cannot 
tell  yet ;  but  I  am  perfectly  satisfied  he  believes  in  the  manner 
of  which  you  were  speaking — that  of  obedience,  Wynnie.  He 
must  believe  with  his  heart  and  will  and  life.” 

“  If  so,  he  can  well  afford  to  wait  for  what  light  God  will  give 
him  on  things  that  belong  to  the  intellect  and  judgment.” 

“  I  would  rather  think,”  he  returned,  “  that  purity  of  life  must 
react  on  the  judgment,  so  as  to  make  it  likewise  clear,  and 
enable  to  recognize  the  true  force  of  the  evidence  at  command.” 

“  That  is  how  my  father  came  to  believe,”  I  said. 

“  He  seems  to  me  to  rest  his  conviction  more  upon  external 
proof  ” 


274 


The  Vicars  Daughter . 

“  That  is  only  because  it  is  easier  to  talk  about.  He  told  me 
once  that  he  was  never  able  to  estimate  the  force  and  weight  of 
the  external  arguments  until  after  he  had  believed  for  the  very 
love  of  the  eternal  truth  he  saw  in  the  story.  His  heart,  he  said, 
had  been  the  guide  of  his  intellect.” 

“  That  is  just  what  I  would  fain  believe.  But  oh,  Wynnie, 
the  pity  of  it  if  that  story  should  not  be  true  after  all  !  ” 

“  Ah,  my  love  !  ”  I  cried — “  that  very  word  makes  me 
surer  than  ever  that  it  cannot  but  be  true.  Let  us  go  on  put¬ 
ting  it  to  the  hardest  test ;  let  us  try  it  until  it  crumbles  in  our 
hands — try  it  by  the  touchstone  of  action  founded  on  its 
requirements.” 

“  There  may  be  no  other  way,”  said  Percivale,  after  a 
rhoughtful  pause,  “  of  becoming  capable  of  recognizing  the 
truth.  It  may  be  beyond  the  grasp  of  all  but  the  mind  that  has 
thus  yielded  to  it.  There  may  be  no  contact  for  it  with  any  but 
such  a  mind.  Such  a  conviction  then  could  neither  be  fore¬ 
stalled  nor  communicated.  Its  very  existence  must  remain 
doubtful  until  it  asserts  itself.  I  see  that.” 


V 


My  Second  Terror, 


275 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

MY  SECOND  TERROR. 

“  Please,  ma’am,  is  Master  Fido  to  carry  Master  Zohrab  about 
by  the  back  o’  the  neck  ?  ”  said  Jemima  in  indignant  appeal,  one 
afternoon  late  in  November,  bursting  into  the  study  where  I  sat 
with  my  husband. 

Fido  was  our  Bedlington  terrier,  which,  having  been  reared 
by  Newcastle  colliers,  and  taught  to  draw  a  badger — whatever 
that  may  mean — I  am  hazy  about  it — had  a  passion  for 
burrowing  after  anything  buried.  Swept  away  by  the  current  of 
the  said  passion,  he  had  with  his  strong  fore-paws  unearthed 
poor  Zohrab,  which,  being  a  tortoise,  had  ensconced  himself, 
as  he  thought,  for  the  winter,  in  the  earth  at  the  foot  of  a  lilac- 
tree;  but  now,  much  to  his  jeopardy,  from  the  cold  and  the 
shock  of  the  surprise  more  than  from  the  teeth  of  his  friend,  was 
being  borne  about  the  garden  in  triumph,  though  whether 
exactly  as  Jemima  described  may  be  questionable.  Her  indig¬ 
nation  at  the  inroad  of  the  dog  upon  the  personal  rights  of  the 
tortoise  had  possibly  not  lessened  her  general  indifference  to 
accuracy. 

Alarmed  at  the  danger  to  the  poor  animal,  of  a  kind  from 
which  his  natural  defences  were  poweriess  to  protect  him, 
Percivale  threw  down  his  palette  and  brushes,  and  ran  to  the 
door. 

u  Do  put  on  your  coat  and  hat,  Percivale,”  I  cried — but  he 
was  gone. 

Cold  as  it  was,  he  had  been  sitting  in  the  light  blouse  he  had 
worn  at  his  work  all  the  summer.  The  stove  had  got  red-hot, 
and  the  room  was  like  an  oven,  while  outside  a  dank  fog  filled 
the  air.  I  hurried  after  him  with  his  coat,  and  found  him  pur¬ 
suing  Fido  about  the  garden,  the  brute  declining  to  obey  his 
call,  or  to  drop  the  tortoise.  Percivale  was  equally  deaf  to  my 

T  2 


2/6 


The  Vicars  Daughter. 


call,  and  not  until  he  had  beaten  the  dog  did  he  return  with  the 
rescued  tortoise  in  his  hands.  The  consequences  were  serious 
— first  the  death  of  Zohrab,  and  next  a  terrible  illness  to  my 
husband.  He  had  caught  cold ;  it  settled  on  his  lungs  and 
passed  into  bronchitis. 

It  was  a  terrible  time  to  me,  for  I  had  no  doubt,  for  some 
days,  that  he  was  dying.  The  measures  taken  seemed 
thoroughly  futile. 

It  is  an  awful  moment  when  first  death  looks  in  at  the  door. 
The  positive  recognition  of  his  presence  is  so  different  from  any 
vividest  imagination  of  it !  For  the  moment  I  believed  nothing 
- — felt  only  the  coming  blackness  of  absolute  loss.  I  cared 
neither  for  my  children,  nor  for  my  father  or  mother.  Nothing 
appeared  of  any  worth  more.  I  had  conscience  enough  left  to 
try  to  pray,  but  no  prayer  would  rise  from  the  frozen  depths  of 
my  spirit.  I  could  only  move  about  in  mechanical  and  hope¬ 
less  ministration  to  one  whom  it  seemed  of  no  use  to  go  on 
loving  any  more  ;  for  what  was  nature  but  a  soul-less  machine, 
the  constant  clank  of  whose  motion  sounded  only,  “  Dust  to 
dust  :  dust  to  dust,”  for  evermore  ?  But  I  was  roused  from 
this  horror-stricken  mood  by  a  look  from  my  husband, 
who,  catching  a  glimpse  of  my  despair,  motioned  me  to  him 
with  a  smile  as  of  sunshine  upon  snow,  and  whispered  in  my 
ear : 

“  I’m  afraid  you  haven’t  much  more  faith  than  myself  after 
all,  Wynnie.” 

It  stung  me  into  life — not  for  the  sake  of  my  professions,  not 
even  for  the  honour  of  our  heavenly  Father,  but  by  waking  in 
me  the  awful  thought  of  my  beloved  passing  through  the 
shadow  of  death  with  no  one  beside  him  to  help  or  comfort 
him,  in  absolute  loneliness  and  uncertainty.  The  thought  was 
unendurable.  For  a  moment  I  wished  he  might  die  suddenly, 
and  so  escape  the  vacuous  despair  of  a  conscious  lingering  be¬ 
twixt  life  and  the  something  or  the  nothing  beyond  it. 

“  But  I  cannot  go  with  you  !  ”  I  cried,  and  forgetting  all  my 
duty  as  a  nurse,  I  wept  in  agony. 


My  Second  Terror. 


277 


“  Perhaps  another  will,  my  Wynnie — one  who  knows  the  way,” 
he  whispered,  for  he  could  not  speak  aloud,  and  closed  his  eytjs. 

It  was  as  if  an  arrow  of  light  had  slain  the  Python  coiled 
about  my  heart.  If  he  believed,  I  could  believe  also  ;  if  he 
could  encounter  the  vague  dark,  1  could  endure  the  cheerless 
light.  I  was  myself  again,  and,  with  one  word  of  endearment, 
left  the  bedside  to  do  what  had  to  be  done. 

At  length  a  faint  hope  began  to  glimmer  in  the  depth  of  my 
cavernous  fear.  It  was  long  ere  it  swelled  into  confidence  ;  but 
although  I  was  then  in  somewhat  feeble  health,  my  strength 
never  gave  way.  For  a  whole  week  I  did  not  once  undress,  and 
for  weeks  I  was  half  awake  all  the  time  I  slept.  The  softest 
whisper  would  rouse  me  thoroughly,  and  it  was  only  when 
Marion  took  my  place  that  I  could  sleep  at  all. 

I  am  afraid  I  neglected  my  poor  children  dreadfully.  I 
seemed  for  the  time  to  have  no  responsibility,  and  even,  I  am 
ashamed  to  say,  little  care  for  them.  But  then  I  knew  that 
they  were  well  attended  to ;  friends  were  very  kind — especially 
Judy  — in  taking  them  out ;  and  Marion’s  daily  visits  were  like 
those  of  a  mother.  Indeed  she  was  able  to  mother  anything 
human  except  a  baby,  to  whom  she  felt  no  atti  action — any 
more  than  to  the  inferior  animals,  for  which  she  had  little  re¬ 
gard  beyond  a  negative  one  :  she  would  hurt  no  creature  that 
was  not  hurtful ;  but  she  had  scarcely  an  atom  of  kindness  for 
dog  or  cat,  or  anything  that  is  petted  of  woman.  It  is  the  only 
defect  I  am  aware  of  in  her  character. 

My  husband  slowly  recovered,  but  it  was  months  before  he 
was  able  to  do  anything  he  would  call  work.  But  even  in 
labour  success  is  net  only  to  the  strong.  Working  a  little  at  the 
short  best  time  of  the  day  with  him,  he  managed,  long  before 
his  full  recovery,  to  paint  a  small  picture  which  better  critics 
than  I  have  thought  worthy  of  Angelico.  I  will  attempt  to 
describe  it. 

Through  the  lighted  windows  of  a  great  hall,  the  spectator 
catches  broken  glimpses  of  a  festive  company.  At  the  head 
of  the  table,  pouring  out  the  red  wine,  he  sees  one  like  unto  the 


278  The  Vicars  Daughter. 

Son  of  Man,  upon  whom  the  eyes  of  all  are  turned.  At  the 
other  end  of  the  hall,  seated  high  in  a  gallery,  with  rapt  looks 
and  quaint  yet  homely  angelican  instruments,  he  sees  the 
orchestra  pouring  out  their  souls  through  their  strings  and  trum¬ 
pets.  The  hall  is  filled  with  a  jewelly  glow,  as  of  light  suppressed 
by  colour,  the  radiating  centre  of  which  is  the  red  wine  on 
the  table ;  while  mingled  wings,  of  all  gorgeous  splendours, 
hovering  in  the  dim  height,  are  suffused  and  harmonized  by 
the  molten  ruby  tint  that  pervades  the  whole. 

Outside,  in  the  drizzly  darkness,  stands  a  lonely  man.  He 
stoops  listening,  with  one  ear  laid  almost  against  the  door.  His 
half-upturned  face  catches  a  ray  of  the  light  reflected  from  a 
muddy  pool  in  the  road.  It  discloses  features  wan  and  wasted 
with  sorrow  and  sickness,  but  glorified  with  the  joy  of  the  music. 
He  is  like  one  who  has  been  four  days  dead,  to  whose  body 
the  music  has  recalled  the  soul.  Down  by  his  knee  he  holds  a 
violin,  curiously  fashioned  like  those  of  the  orchestra  within, 
which,  as  he  listens,  he  is  tuning  to  their  pitch. 

To  readers  acquainted  with  a  poem  of  Dr.  Donne’s — • 
“  Hymn  to  God,  my  God,  in  my  sickness,” — this  description 
of  mine  will  at  once  suggest  the  origin  of  the  picture.  I  had 
read  some  verses  of  it  to  him  in  his  convalescence,  and  having 
heard  them  once  he  requested  them  often  again.  The  first 
stanza  runs  thus  :  — 

Since  I  am  coming  to  that  holy  room 
Where  with  the  choir  of  saints  for  evermore 
I  shall  be  made  thy  musique,  as  I  come, 

I  tune  the  instrument  here  at  the  door ; 

And  what  I  must  do  then,  think  here  before* 


The  painting  is  almost  the  only  one  he  has  yet  refused  to 
me  see  before  it  was  finished ;  but  when  it  was,  he  hung  it  up 
in  my  own  little  room  off  the  study,  and  I  became  thoroughly 
acquainted  with  it.  I  think  I  love  it  more  than  anything  else 
he  has  done.  I  got  him,  without  telling  him  why,  to  put  a 


My  Second  Terror .  279 

touch  or  two  to  the  listening  figure,  which  made  it  really  lik$ 
himself. 

During  this  period  of  recovery,  I  often  came  upon  him 
reading  his  Greek  New  Testament,  which  he  would  shove 
aside  when  I  entered.  At  length  one  morning  I  said  to  him : 

“  Are  you  ashamed  of  the  New  Testament,  Percivale  ? 
One  would  think  it  was  a  bad  book  from  the  way  you  try 
to  hide  it.” 

“  No,  my  love,”  he  said ;  “  it  is  only  that  I  am  jealous  of 
appearing  to  do  that  from  suffering  and  weakness  only,  which 
I  did  not  do  when  I  was  strong  and  well.  But  sickness  has 
opened  my  eyes  a  good  deal  I  think,  and  I  am  sure  of  this 
much,  that  whatever  truth  there  is  here,  I  want  it  all  the  same 
whether  I  am  feeling  the  want  or  not.  I  had  no  idea  what 
there  was  in  this  book.” 

“  Would  you  mind  telling  me,”  I  said,  “what  made  you  take 
to  reading  it  ?  ” 

“  I  will  try. — When  I  thought  I  was  dying,  a  black  cloud 
seemed  to  fall  over  everything.  It  was  not  so  much  that  I 
was  afraid  to  die — although  I  did  dread  the  final  conflict — as 
that  I  felt  so  forsaken  and  lonely.  It  was  of  little  use  saying 
to  myself  that  I  mustn’t  be  a  coward,  and  that  it  was  the 
part  of  a  man  to  meet  his  fate,  whatever  it  might  be,  with 
composure  ;  for  I  saw  nothing  worth  being  brave  about ;  the 
heart  had  melted  out  of  me  ;  there  was  nothing  to  give  me 
joy,  nothing  for  my  life  to  rest  upon,  no  sense  of  love  at  the 
heart  of  things.  Didn’t  you  feel  something  the  same  that 
terrible  day  ?  ” 

“  I  did,”  I  answered.  “  I  hope  I  never  believed  in  death 
all  the  time ;  and  yet  for  one  fearful  moment  the  skeleton 
seemed  to  swell  and  grow  till  he  blotted  out  the  sun  and  the 
stars,  and  was  himself  all  in  all;  while  the  life  beyond  was  too 
shadowy  to  show  behind  him.  And  so  death  was  victorious 
until  the  thought  of  your  loneliness  in  the  dark  valley  broke 
the  spell,  and  for  your  sake  I  hoped  in  God  again.” 

“  And  I  thought  with  myself — Would  God  set  his  children 


280  The  Vicar  s  Daughter . 

down  in  the  dark,  and  leave  them  to  cry  aloud  in  anguish  at 
the  terrors  of  the  night  ?  Would  he  not  make  the  very  dark¬ 
ness  light  about  them  ?  Or  if  they  must  pass  through  such 
tortures,  would  he  not  at  least  let  them  know  that  he  was 
with  them  ?  How  then  can  there  be  a  God  ?  Then  arose  in 
my  mind  all  at  once  the  old  story,  how,  in  the  person  of  his 
son,  God  himself  had  passed  through  the  darkness  now  gather¬ 
ing  about  me,  had  gone  down  to  the  grave,  and  had  con¬ 
quered  death  by  dying.  If  this  was  true,  this  was  to  be  a  God 
indeed.  Well  might  he  call  on  us  to  endure  who  had  himself 
borne  the  far  heavier  share.  If  there  were  an  Eternal  Life  who 
would  perfect  my  life,  I  could  be  brave  ;  I  could  endure  what 
he  chose  to  lay  upon  me ;  I  could  go  whither  he  led.” 

“  And  were  you  able  to  think  all  that  when  you  were  so  ill, 
my  love  ?  ”  I  said. 

“  Something  like  it— practically  very  like  it,”  he  answered. 
“  It  kept  growing  in  my  mind — coming  and  going  and  gather¬ 
ing  dearer  shape.  I  thought  with  myself  that  if  there  was  a 
God,  he  certainly  knew  that  I  would  give  myself  to  him  if  I 
could  ;  that,  if  I  knew  Jesus  to  be  verily  and  really  his  son,  how¬ 
ever  it  might  seem  strange  to  believe  in  him  and  hard  to  obey 
him,  I  would  try  to  do  so  ;  and  then  averse  about  the  smoking 
flax  and  the  bruised  reed  came  into  my  head,  and  a  great  hope 
arose  in  me.  I  do  not  know  if  it  was  what  the  good  people 
would  call  faith,  but  I  had  no  time  and  no  heart  to  think  about 
words :  I  wanted  God  and  his  Christ.  A  fresh  spring  of  life 
seemed  to  burst  up  in  my  heart ;  all  the  world  grew  bright  again; 
I  seemed  to  love  you  and  the  children  twice  as  much  as  be¬ 
fore  ;  a  calmness  came  down  upon  my  spirit  which  seemed 
to  me  like  nothing  but  the  presence  of  God  ;  and,  although 
I  daresay  you  did  not  then  perceive  a  change,  I  am  certain 
that  the  same  moment  I  began  to  recover.” 


The  Clouds  after  the  Rain . 


281 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

THE  CLOUDS  AFTER  THE  RAIN. 

But  the  clouds  returned  after  the  rain.  It  will  be  easily  un¬ 
derstood  how  the  little  money  we  had  in  hand  should  have 
rapidly  vanished  during  Percivale’s  illness.  While  he  was  making 
nothing,  the  expenses  of  the  family  went  on  as  usual,  and  not 
that  only,  but  many  little  delicacies  had  to  be  got  for  him,  and 
the  doctor  was  yet  to  pay.  Even  up  to  the  time  when  he  was 
taken  ill,  we  had  been  doing  little  better  than  living  from  hand 
to  mouth,  for  as  often  as  we  thought  income  was  about  to  get 
a  few  yards  ahead  in  the  race  with  expense,  something  invariably 
happened  to  disappoint  us. 

I  am  not  sorry  that  I  have  no  special  faculty  for  saving;  for 
I  have  never  known  any  in  whom  such  was  well  developed, 
who  would  not  do  things  they  ought  to  be  ashamed  of.  The 
savings  of  such  people  seem  to  me  to  come  quite  as  much  off 
other  people  as  off  themselves,  and,  especially  in  regard  of 
small  sums,  they  are  in  danger  of  being  first  mean,  and  then 
dishonest.  Certainly,  whoever  makes  saving  the  end  of  her 
life,  must  soon  grow  mean,  and  will  probably  grow  dishonest. 
But  I  have  never  succeeded  in  drawing  the  line  betwixt  mean¬ 
ness  and  dishonesty :  what  is  mean,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  slides 
by  indistinguishable  gradations  into  what  is  plainly  dishonest. 
And  what  is  more — the  savings  are  commonly  made  at  the 
cost  of  the  defenceless.  It  is  better  far  to  live  in  constant 
difficulties,  than  to  keep  out  of  them  by  such  vile  means  as 
must  besides  poison  the  whole  nature,  and  make  one’s  judg¬ 
ments  both  of  God  and  her  neighbours  mean  as  her  own 
conduct.  It  is  nothing  to  say  that  you  must  be  just  before 
you  are  generous,  for  that  is  the  very  point  I  am  insisting  on — - 
namely,  that  one  must  be  just  to  others  before  she  is  generous 
to  herself.  It  will  never  do  to  make  your  two  ends  meet  by 


282 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter . 

pulling  the  other  ends  from  the  hands  of  those  who  are  like¬ 
wise  puzzled  to  make  them  meet. 

But  I  must  now  put  myself  at  the  bar,  and  cry  Peccavi ;  for 
I  was  often  wrong  on  the  other  side,  sometimes  getting  things 
for  the  house  before  it  was  quite  clear  I  could  afford  them,  and 
sometimes  buying  the  best  when  an  inferior  thing  would  have 
been  more  suitable,  if  not  to  my  ideas,  yet  to  my  purse.  It  is, 
however,  far  more  difficult  for  one  with  an  uncertain  income  to 
learn  to  save,  or  even  to  be  prudent,  than  for  one  who  knows 
how  much  exactly  every  quarter  will  bring. 

My  husband,  while  he  left  the  whole  management  of  money 
matters  to  me,  would  yet  spend  occasionally  without  consulting 
me.  In  fact  he  had  no  notion  of  money,  and  what  it  would  or 
would  not  do.  I  never  knew  a  man  spend  less  upon  himself, 
but  he  would  be  extravagant  for  me,  and  I  dared  hardly  utter 
a  foolish  liking  lest  he  should  straightway  turn  it  into  a  cause 
of  shame  by  attempting  to  gratify  it.  He  had  besides  a  weak¬ 
ness  for  over-paying  people,  of  which  neither  Marion  nor  I 
could  honestly  approve,  however  much  we  might  admire  the 
disposition  whence  it  proceeded. 

Now  that  I  have  confessed,  I  shall  be  more  easy  in  my  mind, 
for  in  regard  of  the  troubles  that  followed,  I  cannot  be  sure 
that  I  was  free  of  blame.  One  word  more  in  self-excuse,  and 
I  have  done:  however  imperative,  it  is  none  the  less  hard  to 
cultivate  two  opposing  virtues  at  one  and  the  same  time. 

While  my  husband  was  ill,  not  a  picture  had  been  disposed 
of,  and  even  after  he  was  able  to  work  a  little,  I  could  not 
encourage  visitors  :  he  was  not  able  for  the  fatigue,  and  in  fact 
shrunk,  with  an  irritability  I  had  never  perceived  a  sign  of 
before,  from  seeing  any  one.  To  my  growing  dismay,  I  saw 
my  little  stock — which  was  bodily  in  my  hand,  for  we  had  no 
banking  account — rapidly  approaching  its  final  evanishment. 

Some  may  think  that,  with  parents  in  the  position  of  mine, 
a  temporary  difficulty  need  have  caused  me  no  anxiety  :  I  must 
therefore  mention  one  or  two  facts  with  regard  to  both  my 
husband  and  my  parents. 


283 


The  Clouds  after  the  Rain . 

In  the  first  place,  although  he  had  as  complete  a  confidence 
in  him  as  I  had — both  in  regard  to  what  he  said  and  what  he 
seemed,  my  husband  could  not  feel  towards  my  father  as  I 
felt.  He  had  married  me  as  a  poor  man,  who  yet  could  keep 
a  wife ;  and  I  knew  it  would  be  a  bitter  humiliation  to  him  to 
ask  my  father  for  money,  on  the  ground  that  he  had  given  his 
daughter.  I  should  have  felt  nothing  of  the  kind,  for  I  should 
have  known  that  my  father  would  do  him  as  well  as  me  perfect 
justice  in  the  matter,  and  would  consider  any  money  spent 
upon  us  as  used  to  a  divine  purpose.  For  he  regarded  the 
necessaries  of  life  as  neb!?,  its  comforts  as  honourable,  its 
luxuries  as  permissible — thus  reversing  altogether  the  usual 
judgment  of  rich  men,  who  in  general  like  nothing  worse  than 
to  leave  their  hoards  to  those  of  their  relatives  who  will 
degrade  them  to  the  purchase  of  mere  bread  and  cheese, 
blankets  and  clothes  and  coals.  But  I  had  no  right  to 
go  against  my  husband’s  feeling.  So  long  as  the  children  had 
their  bread  and  milk,  I  would  endure  with  him.  I  am  confident 
I  could  have  starved  as  well  as  he,  and  should  have  enjoyed 
letting  him  see  it. 

But  there  were  reasons  because  of  which  even  I,  in  my 
fullest  freedom,  could  not  have  asked  help  from  my  father  just 
at  this  time.  I  am  ashamed  to  tell  the  fact,  but  I  must :  before 
the  end  of  his  second  year  at  Oxford,  just  over,  the  elder  of 
my  two  brothers  had,  without  any  vice,  I  firmly  believe,  beyond 
that  of  thoughtlessness  and  folly,  got  himself  so  deeply  mired 
in  debt,  both  to  tradespeople  and  money-lenders,  that  my 
father  had  to  pay  two  thousand  pounds  for  him.  Indeed,  as 
I  was  well  assured,  although  he  never  told  me  so,  he  had  to 
borrow  part  of  the  money  on  a  fresh  mortgage  in  order  to 
clear  him.  Some  lawyer,  I  believe,  told  him  that  he  was  not 
bound  to  pay;  but  my  father  said  that  although  such  creditors 
deserved  no  protection  of  the  law,  he  was  not  bound  to  give 
them  a  lesson  in  honesty  at  the  expense  of  weakening  the  bond 
between  himself  and  his  son,  for  whose  misdeeds  he  acknow¬ 
ledged  a  large  share  of  responsibility  ;  while  on  the  other  hand 


234 


The  Vicars  Daughter . 

he  was  bound  to  give  his  son  the  lesson  of  the  suffering  brought 
on  his  family  by  his  selfishness ;  and  therefore  would  pay  the 
money — if  not  gladly,  yet  willingly.  How  the  poor  boy  got 
through  the  shame  and  misery  of  it,  I  can  hardly  imagine  3  but 
this  I  can  say  for  him,  that  it  was  purely  of  himself  that  he 
accepted  a  situation  in  Ceylon,  instead  of  returning  to  Oxford. 
Thither  he  was  now  on  his  way,  with  the  intention  of  saving 
all  he  could  in  order  to  repay  his  father ;  and  if  at  length  he 
succeeds  in  doing  so,  he  will  doubtless  make  a  fairer  start  the 
second  time,  because  of  the  discipline,  than  if  he  had  gone  out 
with  the  money  in  his  pocket. 

It  was  natural  then  that  in  such  circumstances  a  daughter 
should  shrink  from  adding  her  troubles  to  those  caused  by  a 
son.  I  ought  to  add  that  my  father  had  of  late  been  laying 
out  a  good  deal  in  building  cottages  for  the  labourers  on  his 
farms,  and  that  the  land  was  not  yet  entirely  freed  from  the 
mortgages  my  mother  had  inherited  with  it. 

Percivale  continued  so  weak  that  for  some  time  I  could  not 
bring  myself  to  say  a  word  to  him  about  money.  But  to  keep 
them  as  low  as  possible  did  not  prevent  the  household  debts 
from  accumulating,  and  the  servants’  wages  were  on  the  point 
of  coming  due.  I  had  been  careful  to  keep  the  milkman  paid, 
and  for  the  rest  of  the  tradesmen  I  consoled  myself  with  the 
certainty  that,  if  the  worst  came  to  the  worst,  there  was  plenty 
of  furniture  in  the  house  to  pay  every  one  of  them.  Still,  of 
all  burdens,  next  to  sin,  that  of  debt  I  think  must  be  the 
heaviest. 

I  tried  to  keep  cheerful,  but  at  length,  one  night,  during  our 
supper  of  bread  and  cheese,  which  I  could  not  bear  to  see  my 
poor  pale-faced  husband  eating,  I  broke  down. 

“  What  is  the  matter,  my  darling  ?  ”  asked  Percivale. 

I  took  a  half-crown  from  my  pocket,  and  held  it  out  on  the 
palm  of  my  hand. 

“  That’s  all  I’ve  got,  Percivale,”  I  said. 

“  Oh  !  that  all — is  it  ?  ”  he  returned  lightly. 

“  Yes — isn’t  that  enough  ?  ”  I  said  with  some  indignation. 


285 


The  Clouds  after  the  Rain • 

“  Certainly—  for  to-night,”  he  answered,  “seeing  tne  shops 
are  shut.  But  is  that  all  that’s  troubling  you?  ”  he  went  on. 

“It  seems  to  me  quite  enough,”  I  said  again;  “and  If 
you  had  the  housekeeping  to  do,  and  the  bills  to  pay,  you 
would  think  a  solitary  half-crown  quite  enough  to  make 
you  miserable.” 

“  Never  mind —so  long  as  it’s  a  good  one,”  he  said.  u  I’ll 
get  you  more  to-morrow.” 

“  How  can  you  do  that  ?  ”  I  asked. 

“  Easily,”  he  answered.  “  You’ll  see.  Don’t  you  trouble 
your  dear  heart  about  it  for  a  moment.” 

I  felt  relieved,  and  asked  him  no  more  questions. 

The  next  morning,  when  I  went  into  the  study  to  speak  to 
him,  he  was  not  there,  and  I  guessed  that  he  had  gone  to 
town  to  get  the  money,  for  he  had  not  been  out  before  since 
his  illness,  at  least  without  me.  But  I  hoped  of  all  things  he 
was  not  going  to  borrow  it  of  a  money-lender,  of  which 
I  had  a  great  and  justifiable  horror,  having  heard  from 
himself  how  a  friend  of  his  had  in  such  case  fared.  I  would 
have  sold  three-fourths  of  the  things  in  the  house  rather.  But 
as  I  turned  to  leave  the  study,  anxious  both  about  himselfand 
his  proceedings,  I  thought  something  was  different,  and  soon 
discovered  that  a  certain  favourite  picture  was  missing  from 
the  wall  :  it  was  clear  he  had  gone  either  to  sell  it  or  raise 
money  upon  it. 

By  our  usual  early  dinner-hour,  he  returned,  and  put  into  my 
hands,  with  a  look  of  forced  cheerfulness,  two  five-pound 
notes. 

“Is  that  all  you  got  for  that  picture?  ”  I  said. 

“  That  is  all  Mr.  -  would  advance  me  upon  it,”  he 

answered.  “  I  thought  he  had  made  enough  by  me  to  have 
risked  a  little  more  than  that ;  but  picture-dealers — .  Well, 
never  mind.  That  is  enough  to  give  time  for  twenty  things  to 
happen.” 

And  no  doubt  twenty  things  did  happen,  but  none  of  them 
of  the  sort  he  meant.  The  ten  pounds  sank  through  my 


286 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter , 

purse  like  water  through  gravel.  I  paid  a  number  oi  small 
bills  at  once,  for  they  pressed  the  more  heavily  upon  me  that 
I  knew  the  money  was  wanted ;  and  by  the  end  of  another 
fortnight  we  were  as  badly  off  as  before,  with  an  additional 
trouble,  which  in  the  circumstances  was  anything  but  slight. 

In  conjunction  with  more  than  ordinary  endowments  of 
stupidity  and  self-conceit,  Jemima  was  possessed  of  a  furious 
temper,  which  showed  itself  occasionally  in  outbursts  of  unen¬ 
durable  rudeness.  She  had  been  again  and  again  on  the  point 
of  leaving  me,  now  she,  now  I  giving  warning,  but  ere  the  day 
arrived,  her  better  nature  had  always  got  the  upper  hand ;  she 
had  broken  down  and  given  in.  These  outbursts  had  generally 
followed  a  season  of  better  behaviour  than  usual,  and  were  all 
but  certain  if  I  ventured  the  least  commendation,  for  she  could 
stand  anything  better  than  praise.  At  the  least  subsequent 
rebuke,  self  would  break  out  in  rage,  vulgarity,  and  rudeness. 
On  this  occasion,  however,  I  cannot  tell  whence  it  was  that 
one  of  these  cyclones  arose  in  our  small  atmosphere ;  but  it 
was  Jemima,  you  may  well  believe,  who  gave  warning,  for  it 
was  out  of  my  power  to  pay  her  wages.  And  there  was  no  sign 
of  her  yielding. 

My  readers  maybe  inclined  to  ask  in  what  stead  the  religion 
I  had  learned  of  my  father  now  stood  me.  I  will  endeavour  to 
be  honest  in  my  answer. 

Every  now  and  then  I  tried  to  pray  to  God  to  deliver  us, 
but  I  was  far  indeed  from  praying  always,  and  still  farther  from 
not  fainting.  A  whole  day  would  sometimes  pass  under  a 
weight  of  care  that  amounted  often  to  misery,  and  not  until 
its  close  would  I  bethink  me  that  I  had  been  all  the  weary 
hours  without  God.  Even  when  more  hopeful,  I  would  keep 
looking  and  looking  for  the  impossibility  of  something  to  happen 
of  itself,  instead  of  looking  for  some  good  and  perfect  gift  to 
come  down  from  the  Father  of  Lights;  and  when  I  awoke  to 
the  fact,  the  fog  would  yet  lie  so  deep  on  my  soul  that  I  could 
not  be  sorry  for  my  idolatry  and  want  of  faith.  It  was  indeed 
a  miserable  time.  There  was,  besides,  one  definite  thought 


The  Clouds  after  the  Rain . 


2S7 


that  always  choked  my  prayers  :  I  could  not  say  in  my  con¬ 
science  that  I  had  been  sufficiently  careful  either  in  my  manage¬ 
ment  or  my  expenditure.  “If,”  I  thought,  “I  could  be 
certain  that  I  had  done  my  best,  I  should  be  able  to  trust  in 
God  for  all  that  lies  beyond  my  power ;  but  now,  he  may  mean 
to  punish  me  for  my  carelessness.5’  Then  why  should  I  not 
endure  it  Calmly  and  without  complaint  ?  Alas  !  it  was  not 
I  alone  that  thus  would  be  punished,  but  my  children  and  my 
husband  as  well.  Nor  could  I  avoid  coming  on  my  poor 
father  at  last,  who  of  course  would  interfere  to  prevent  a  sale  ; 
and  the  thought  was,  from  the  circumstances  I  have  mentioned, 
very  bitter  to  me.  Sometimes,  however,  in  more  faithful 
moods,  I  would  reason  with  myself  that  God  would  not  be 
hard  upon  me  even  if  I  had  not  been  so  saving  as  I  ought. 
My  father  had  taken  his  son’s  debts  on  himself,  and  would  not 
allow  him  to  be  disgraced  more  than  could  be  helped  ;  and  if 
an  earthly  parent  would  act  thus  for  his  child,  would  our 
Father  in  heaven  be  less  tender  with  us  ?  Still,  for  very  love’s 
sake,  it  might  be  necessary  to  lay  some  disgrace  upon  me,  for 
of  late  I  had  been  thinking  far  too  little  of  the  best  things.  The 
cares  more  than  the  duties  of  life  had  been  filling  my  mind. 
If  it  brought  me  nearer  to  God,  I  must  then  say  it  had  been 
good  for  me  to  be  afflicted ;  but  while  my  soul  was  thus 
oppressed,  how  could  my  feelings  have  any  scope  ?  Let  come 
what  would,  however,  I  must  try  and  bear  it—  even  disgrace,  if 
it  was  his  will.  Better  people  than  I  had  been  thus  disgraced, 
and  it  might  be  my  turn  next.  Meantime  it  had  not  come  to 
that,  and  I  must  not  let  the  cares  of  to-morrow  burden 
to-day. 

Every  day  almost,  as  it  seems  in  looking  back,  a  train  of 
thought  something  like  this  would  pass  through  my  mind.  But 
things  went  on,  and  grew  no  better.  With  gathering  rapidity, 
we  went  sliding — to  all  appearance — down  the  inclined  plane 
of  disgrace. 

Percivale  at  length  asked  Roger,  if  he  had  any  money  by 
him,  to  lend  him  a  little ;  and  he  gave  him  at  once  all  he 


288 


The  Vicar’s  Daughter. 

had,  amounting  to  six  pounds  — a  wonderful  amount  for  Roger 
to  have  accumulated— with  the  help  of  which  we  got  on  to  the 
end  of  Jemima’s  month.  The  next  step  I  had  in  view  was  to 
take  my  little  valuables  to  the  pawnbroker’s — amongst  them  a 
watch,  whose  face  was  encircled  with  a  row  of  good-sized 
diamonds.  It  had  belonged  to  my  great  grandmother,  and  my 
mother  had  given  it  me  when  I  was  married. 

We  had  had  a  piece  of  boiled  neck  of  mutton  for  dinner,  of 
which  we,  that  is  my  husband  and  I,  had  partaken'  sparingly, 
in  order  that  there  might  be  enough  for  the  servants  ;  Percivale 
had  gone  out,  and  I  was  sitting  in  the  drawing-room,  lost  in 
anything  but  a  blessed  reverie,  with  all  the  children  chattering 
amongst  themselves  beside  me,  when  Jemima  entered,  looking 
subdued. 

“  If  you  please,  ma’am,  this  is  my  day,”  she  said. 

“Have  you  got  a  place,  then,  Jemima?”  I  asked;  for  I 
had  been  so  much  occupied  with  my  own  affairs  that  I  had 
thought  little  of  the  future  of  the  poor  girl  to  whom  I  could 
have  given  but  a  lukewarm  recommendation  for  anything 
prized  amongst  housekeepers. 

“  No,  ma’am.  Please,  ma’am,  mayn’t  I  stop  ?  ” 

“No,  Jemima.  I  am  very  sorry,  but  I  can’t  afford  to  keep 
you.  1  shall  have  to  do  all  the  work  myself  when  you  are 
gone.” 

I  thought  to  pay  her  wages  out  of  the  proceeds  of  my  jewels, 
but  was  willing  to  delay  the  step  as  long  as  possible — rather  I 
believe  from  repugnance  to  enter  the  pawn-shop  than  from 
disinclination  to  part  with  the  trinkets.  But  as  soon  as  I  had 
spoken,  Jemima  burst  into  an  Irish  wail,  mingled  with  sobs  and 
tears,  crying  between  the  convulsions  of  all  three, — 

“  I  thought  there  was  something  wrong,  mis’ess.  You  and 
master  looked  so  scared-like.  Please,  mis’ess,  don’t  send  me 
away.” 

“I  never  wanted  to  send  you  away,  Jemima.  You  wanted 
to  go  yourself.” 

“  No,  ma’am;  that  1  didn’t.  I  only  wanted  you  to  ask  me 


The  Clouds  after  the  Rain .  2  89 

to  stop.  Wirra !  wirra !  It’s  myself  is  sorry  I  was  so  rude. 
It’s  not  me — it’s  my  temper,  mis’ess.  I  do  believe  I  was  born 
with  a  devil  inside  of  me.” 

I  could  not  help  laughing,  partly  from  amusement,  partly 
from  relief. 

“  But  you  see  I  can’t  ask  you  to  stop,”  I  said.  “  I’ve  got 
no  money — not  even  enough  to  pay  you  to-day — so  I  can’t 
keep  you.” 

“  I  don’t  want  no  money,  ma’am.  Let  me  stop,  and  I’ll 
cook  for  yez  and  wash  and  scrub  for  yez  to  the  end  o’  my 
days.  An’  I'll  eat  no  more  than’ll  keep  the  life  in  me.  I 
must  eat  something,  or  the  smell  o’  the  meat  would  turn  me 
>  sick,  ye  see,  ma’am ;  and  then  I  shouldn’t  be  no  good  to  yez. 
Please  ’m,  I  ha’  got  fifteen  pounds  in  the  savings’  bank  :  I’ll 
give  ye  all  that  if  ye’ll  let  me  stop  wid  ye.” 

When  I  confess  that  I  burst  out  crying,  my  reader  will  be 
kind  enough  to  take  into  consideration  that  I  hadn’t  had  much 
to  eat  for  some  time,  that  I  was  therefore  weak  in  body  as  well 
as  in  mind,  and  that  this  was  the  first  gleam  of  sunshine  I  had 
had  for  many  weeks. 

“Thank  you  very  much,  Jemima,”  I  said,  as  soon  as  I  could 
speak.  “  I  won’t  take  your  money,  for  then  you  would  be  as 
poor  as  I  am.  But  if  you  would  like  to  stop  with  us  you  shall, 
and  I  won’t  pay  you  till  I’m  able.” 

The  poor  girl  was  profuse  in  her  thanks,  and  left  the  room 
sobbing  in  her  apron. 

It  was  a  gloomy  drizzly  dreary  afternoon.  The  children  were 
hard  to  amuse,  and  [  was  glad  when  their  bed-time  arrived.  It 
was  getting  late  before  Percivale  returned.  He  looked  pale,  and 
1  found  afterwards  that  he  had  walked  home.  He  had  got  wet, 
and  had  to  change  some  of  his  clothes.  When  we  went  in  to 
supper,  there  was  the  neck  of  mutton  on  the  table,  almost  as 
we  had  left  it.  This  led  me,  b.'fore  asking  him  any  questions, 
to  relate  what  had  passed  with  jemima,  at  which  news  he 
laughed  merrily,  and  was  evidently  a  good  deal  relieved.  Then 
1  asked  him  where  he  had  been. 


u 


290  The  Vicar  s  Daughter \ 

r  I 

“  To  the  city,”  he  answered. 

“  Have  you  sold  another  picture  ?  ”  I  asked,  with  an  inward 
tribulation,  half  hope,  half  fear ;  for  much  as  we  wanted  the 
money,  I  could  ill  bear  the  thought  of  his  pictures  going  for 
the  price  of  mere  pot-boilers. 

“  No,”  he  replied;  “  the  last  is  stopping  the  way.  Mr. - 

has  been  advertising  it  as  a  bargain  for  a  hundred  and  fifty. 
But  he  hasn’t  sold  it  yet,  and  can’t,  he  says,  risk  ten  pounds 
on  another.  What’s  to  come  of  it,  I  don’t  know,”  he  added. 
“  But  meantime  it's  a  comfort  that  Jemima  can  wait  a  bit  for 
her  money.” 

As  we  sat  at  supper  I  thought  I  saw  a  look  on  Percivale’s 
face  which  I  had  never  seen  there  before.  All  at  once,  while 
I  was  wondering  what  it  might  mean,  after  a  long  pause, 
during  which  we  had  been  both  looking  into  the  fire,  he  said, — 

“  Wynnie,  I’m  going  to  paint  a  better  picture  than  I’ve 
ever  painted  yet.  I  can,  and  I  will.” 

“  But  how  are  we  to  live  in  the  meantime  ?  ”  I  said. 

His  face  fell,  and  I  saw  with  shame  what  a  Job’s  comforter 
I  was.  Instead  of  sympathizing  with  his  ardour,  I  had  quenched 
it.  What  if  my  foolish  remark  had  ruined  a  great  picture! 
Anyhow  it  had  wounded  a  great  heart,  which  had  turned  to 
labour  as  its  plainest  duty,  and  would  thereby  have  been 
strengthened  to  endure  and  to  hope.  It  was  too  cruel  ot  me. 
I  knelt  by  his  knee,  and  told  him  I  was  both  ashamed  and 
sorry  I  had  been  so  faithless  and  unkind.  He  made  little  of 
it ;  said  I  might  well  ask  the  question ;  and  even  tried  to  be 
merry  over  it ;  but  I  could  see  well  enough  that  I  had  let  a  gust 
of  the  foggy  night  into  his  soul,  and  was  thoroughly  vexed  with 
myself.  We  went  to  bed  gloomy,  but  slept  well,  and  awoke 
more  cheerful. 


11  During  this  period  of  recovery,  I  often  came  upon  him  reading  his  Greek  New  Testament.’' 


The  Sunshine. 


2ji 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

THE  SUNSHINE. 

As  we  were  dressing,  it  came  into  my  mind  that  I  had  for¬ 
gotten  to  give  him  a  black-bordered  letter  which  had  arrived 
the  night  before,  I  commonly  opened  his  letters,  but  I  had 
not  opened  this  one,  for  it  looked  like  a  business  letter,  and  I 
feared  it  might  be  a  demand  for  the  rent  of  the  house,  which 
was  over  due.  Indeed  at  this  time  I  dreaded  opening  any 
letter  the  writing  on  which  I  did  not  recognize. 

“  Here  is  a  letter,  Percivale,”  I  said.  “  I’m  sorry  I  forgot 
to  give  it  you  last  night.” 

“  Who  is  it  from  ?  ”  he  asked,  talking  through  his  towel  from 
his  dressing-room. 

“  I  don’t  know.  I  didn’t  open  it.  It  looks  like  something 
disagreeable.” 

“  Open  it  now,  then,  and  see.” 

“  I  can’t  just  at  this  moment,”  I  answered,  for  I  had  my 
back  hair  half  twisted  in  my  hands.  “  There  it  is  on  the 
chimney-piece.” 

He  came  in,  took  it,  and  opened  it,  while  I  went  on  with 
my  toilet.  Suddenly  his  arms  were  round  me,  and  I  felt  his 
cheek  on  mine. 

“  Read  that,”  he  said,  putting  the  letter  into  my  hand. 

It  was  from  a  lawyer  in  Shrewsbury,  informing  him  that  his 
godmother,  with  whom  he  had  been  a  great  favourite  when  a 
boy,  was  dead,  and  had  left  him  three  hundred  pounds. 

It  was  like  a  reprieve  to  one  about  to  be  executed.  I  could 
only  weep  and  thank  God,  once  more  believing  in  my  Father 
in  Heaven.  But  it  was  a  humbling  thought,  that,  if  he  had 
not  thus  helped  me,  I  might  have  ceased  to  believe  in  him.  I 
saw  plainly  that,  let  me  talk  to  Percivale  as  I  might,  my  own 
faith  was  but  a  wretched  thing.  It  is  all  very  well  to  have 

U  2 


292 


The  Vicar's  Daughter. 

noble  theories  about  God,  but  where  is  the  good  of  them  except 
we  actually  trust  in  him  as  a  real  present  living  loving  being, 
who  counts  us  of  more  value  than  many  sparrows,  and  will  not 
let  one  of  them  fall  to  the  ground  without  him? 

“  I  thought,  Wynnie,  if  there  was  such  a  God  as  you  believed 
in,  and  with  you  to  pray  to  him,  we  shouldn’t  be  long  without  a 
hearing,”  said  my  husband. 

There  was  more  faith  in  his  heart  all  the  time,  though  he 
could  not  profess  the  belief  I  thought  I  had,  than  there  ever 
was  in  mine. 

But  our  troubles  weren’t  nearly  over  yet.  Percivale  wrote 
acknowledging  the  letter,  and  requesting  to  know  when  it  would 
be  convenient  to  let  him  have  the  money,  as  he  was  in  immediate 
want  of  it.  The  reply  was  that  the  trustees  were  not  bound  to 
pay  the  legacies  for  a  year,  but  that  possibly  they  might  stretch 
a  point  in  his  favour  if  he  applied  to  them.  Percivale  did  so, 
but  received  a  very  curt  answer,  with  little  encouragement  to 
expect  anything  but  the  extreme  of  legal  delay.  He  received 
the  money,  however,  about  four  months  after — lightened,  to 
the  great  disappointment  of  my  ignorance,  of  thirty  pounds 
legacy  duty. 

In  the  meantime,  although  our  minds  were  much  relieved, 
and  Percivale  was  working  away  at  his  new  picture  with  great 
energy  and  courage,  the  immediate  pressure  of  circumstances 
was  nearly  as  painful  as  ever.  It  was  a  comfort,  however,  to 
know  that  we  might  borrow  on  the  security  of  the  legacy ;  but 
greatly  grudging  the  loss  of  the  interest  which  that  would  involve, 
I  would  have  persuaded  Percivale  to  ask  a  loan  of  Lady  Bernard. 
He  objected — on  what  ground  do  you  think?— That  it  would 
be  disagreeable  to  Lady  Bernard  to  be  repaid  the  sum  she  had 
lent  us  !  He  would  have  finally  consented,  however,  I  have 
little  doubt,  had  the  absolute  necessity  for  borrowing  arrived. 

About  a  week  or  ten  days  after  the  blessed  news,  he  had  a 

note  from  Mr.- - ,  whom  he  had  authorized  to  part  with  the 

picture  for  thirty  guineas.  How  much  this  was  under  its  value, 
it  is  not  easy  to  say,  seeing  the  money-value  of  pictures  is 


The  Sunshine . 


293 


dependent  on  so  many  things  ;  but  if  the  fairy  godmothers 
executors  had  paid  her  legacy  at  once,  that  picture  would  not 
have  been  sold  for  less  than  five  times  the  amount ;  and  I 
mav  mention  that  the  last  time  it  changed  hands,  it  fetched 
vo  £  hundred  and  seventy  pounds. 

Mr. —  —  wrote  that  he  had  an  offer  of  five  and  twenty  for  it, 
fc  'ring  to  know  whether  he  might  sell  it  for  that  sum.  Per- 
tjvsde  at  once  gave  his  consent,  and  the  next  day  received  a 
•  'heque  for  eleven  pounds,  odd  shillings  ;  the  difference  being 
the  amount  borrowed  upon  it,  its  interest,  the  commission 
charged  on  the  sale,  and  the  price  of  a  small  picture 
frame. 

The  next  day  Percivale  had  a  visitor  at  the  studio — no  less  a 
person  than  Mr.  Baddeley,  with  his  shirt-front  in  full  blossom, 
and  his  diamond  wallowing  in  light  on  his  fifth  finger — I  cannot 
call  it  his  little  finger,  for  his  hands  were  as  huge  as  they  were 
soft  and  white— hands  descended  of  generations  of  laborious 
ones,  but  which  had  never  themselves  done  any  work  beyond 
paddling  in  money. 

He  greeted  Percivale  with  a  jolly  condescension,  and  told 
him  that  having  seen  and  rather  liked  a  picture  of  his  the  other 
day,  he  had  come  to  inquire  whether  he  had  one  that  would  do 
for  a  pendent  to  it,  as  he  should  like  to  have  it,  provided  he 
did  not  want  a  fancy  price  for  it. 

Percivale  felt  as  if  he  were  setting  out  his  children  for  sale, 
as  he  invited  him  to  look  about  the  room,  and  turned  round  a 
few  from  against  the  wall.  The  great  man  flitted  hither  and 
thither,  spying  at  one  after  another  through  the  cylinder  of  his 
curved  hand,  Percivale  going  on  with  his  painting  as  if  no  one 
were  there. 

“  How  much  do  you  want  for  this  sketch  ?  ”  asked  Mr. 
Baddeley  at  length,  pointing  to  one  of  the  most  highly  finished 
paintings  in  the  room. 

“  I  put  three  hundred  on  it  at  the  Academy  Exhibition/’ 
answered  Percivale.  “  My  friends  thought  it  too  little,  but  as 
it  has  been  on  my  hands  a  long  time  now,  and  pictures  don’t 


*294  7Y/£  Vicars  Daughter \ 

rise  in  price  in  the  keeping  of  the  painter,  I  shouldn’t  mind 
taking  two  for  it.” 

“  Two  tens.  I  suppose  you  mean,”  said  Mr.  Baddeley. 

“  I  gave  him  a  look,”  said  Percivale  as  he  described  the 
interview  to  me  ;  and  I  knew  as  well  as  if  I  had  seen  it  what 
kind  of  a  phenomenon  that  look  must  have  been. 

“  Come  now,”  Mr.  Baddeley  went  on,  perhaps  misinterpret¬ 
ing  the  look,  for  it  was  such  as  a  man  of  his  property  was  not 
in  the  habit  of  receiving,  “  you  mustn’t  think  I’m  made  of 
money,  or  that  I’m  a  green  hand  in  the  market.  I  know  what 
your  pictures  fetch,  and  I’m  a  pretty  sharp  man  of  business,  I 
believe.  What  do  you  really  mean  to  say  and  stick  to  ?  Ready 
money,  you  know.” 

“Three  hundred,”  said  Percivale  coolly. 

“Why,  Mr.  Percivale,”  cried  Mr.  Baddeley,  drawing  himself 
up,  as  my  husband  said,  with  the  air  of  one  who  knew  a  trick 

worth  two  of  that,  “  I  paid  Mr. - fifty  pounds,  neither  mere 

nor  less,  for  a  picture  of  yours  yesterday — a  picture,  allow  me 
to  say,  worth — ” 

He  turned  again  to  the  one  in  question  with  a  critical  air, 
as  if  about  to  estimate  to  a  fraction  its  value  as  compared  with 
the  other.” 

“  Worth  three  of  that,  some  people  think,”  said  Percivale. 

“  The  price  of  this  then,  joking  aside,  is — ?  ” 

“  Three  hundred  pounds,”  answered  Percivale — I  know  well 
how  quietly. 

“  I  understood  you  wished  to  sell  it,”  said  Mr.  Baddeley, 
beginning  for  all  his  good  nature  to  look  offended — as  well 
he  might. 

“  I  do  wish  to  sell  it.  I  happen  to  be  in  want  of  money.” 

“Then  I’ll  be  liberal,  and  offer  you  the  same  I  paid  for  the 
other.  I’ll  send  you  a  cheque  this  afternoon  for  fifty — with 
pleasure.  ” 

“You  cannot  have  that  picture  under  three  hundred.” 

“  Why  !  ”  said  the  rich  man,  puzzled,  “  you  offered  it  for  two 
hundred,  not  five  minutes  ago.” 


The  Sunshine. 


295 


“  Yes;  and  you  pretended  to  think  I  meant  two  tens.” 

“  Offended  you,  I  fear.” 

“  At  all  events  betrayed  so  much  ignorance  of  painting  that 
I  would  rather  not  have  a  picture  of  mine  in  your  house.” 

“  You’re  the  first  man  ever  presumed  to  tell  me  I  was 
ignorant  of  painting,”  said  Mr.  Baddeley,  now  thoroughly 
indignant. 

“  You  have  heard  the  truth,  then,  for  the  first  time,”  said 
Percivale,  and  resumed  his  work. 

Mr.  Baddeley  walked  out  of  the  study. 

I  am  not  sure  that  he  was  so  very  ignorant  He  had  been 
in  the  way  of  buying  popular  pictures  for  some  time,  paying 
thousands  for  certain  of  them.  I  suspect  he  had  eye  enough 
to  see  that  my  husband’s  would  probably  rise  in  value,  and, 
with  the  true  huckster  spirit,  was  ambitious  of  boasting  how 
little  he  had  given  compared  with  what  they  were  really  worth. 

Percivale  in  this  case  was  doubtless  rude.  He  had  an 
insuperable  aversion  to  men  of  Mr.  Baddeley’s  class — men  who 
could  have  no  position  but  for  their  money,  and  who  yet  pre¬ 
sumed  upon  it,  as  if  it  were  gifts  and  graces,  genius  and  learn¬ 
ing,  judgment  and  art,  all  in  one.  He  was  in  the  habit  of 
saying  that  the  plutocracy,  as  he  called  it,  ought  to  be  put 
down — that  is,  negatively,  and  honestly — by  showing  them  no 
more  respect  than  you  really  entertained  for  them.  Besides, 
although  he  had  no  great  favour  for  cousin  Judy’s  husband, 
he  yet  bore  Mr.  Baddeley  a  grudge  for  the  way  in  which  he 
had  treated  one  with  whom,  while  things  went  well  with  him, 
he  had  been  ready  enough  to  exchange  hospitalities. 

Before  long,  through  Lady  Bernard,  he  sold  a  picture  at  a 
fair  price  ;  and  soon  after,  seeing  in  a  shop-window  the  one 

Mr. - had  sold  to  Mr.  Baddeley,  marked  ten  pounds,  went  in 

and  bought  it.  Within  the  year  he  sold  it  for  a  hundred  and 
fifty. 

By  working  day  and  night  almost,  he  finished  his  new  picture 
in  time  for  the  Academy,  and,  as  he  had  himself  predicted,  it 
proved,  at  least  in  the  opinion  of  all  his  artist  friends,  the  best 


2C)5  The  Vicar  s  Daughter . 

that  he  had  ever  painted.  It  was  bought  at  once  for  three 
hundred  pounds,  and  never  since  then  have  we  been  in  want 
of  money. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

WHAT  LADY  BERNARD  THOUGHT  OF  IT. 

My  reader  may  wonder  that,  in  my  record  of  these  troubles,  £ 
have  never  mentioned  Marion.  The  fact  is  I  could  not  bring 
myself  to  tell  her  of  them,  partly  because  she  was  in  some 
trouble  herself,  from  strangers  who  had  taken  rooms  in  the 
house,  and  made  mischief  between  her  and  her  grandchildren ; 
and  partly  because  I  knew  she  would  insist  on  going  to  Lady 
Bernard,  and,  although  I  should  not  have  minded  it  myself,  I 
knew  that  nothing  but  seeing  the  children  hungry  would  have 
driven  my  husband  to  consent  to  it. 

“  One  evening,  after  it  was  all  over,  I  told  Lady  Bernard 
the  story.  She  allowed  me  to  finish  it  without  saying  a  word. 
When  I  had  ended,  she  still  sat  silent  fora  few  moments;  then, 
laying  her  hand  on  my  arm,  said,— 

“  My  dear  child,  you  were  very  wrong,  as  well  as  very  un¬ 
kind.  Why  did  you  not  let  me  know?” 

“Because  my  husband  would  never  have  allowed  me,”  I 
answered. 

“  Then  I  must  have  a  talk  with  your  husband,”  she  said. 

“  I  wish  you  would,”  I  replied,  “for  I  can’t  help  thinking 
Percivale  too  severe  about  such  things.” 

The  very  next  day  she  called,  and  did  have  a  talk  with  him 
in  the  study — to  the  following  effect 

“  I  have  come  to  quarrel  with  you,  Mr.  Percivale,”  said  Lady 
Bernard. 

“  I’m  sorry  to  hear  it,”  he  returned.  “  You’re  the  last  person 


s 


What  Lady  Bernard  Thought  of  it.  297 

I  should  like  to  quarrel  with,  for  it  would  imply  some  un¬ 
pardonable  fault  in  me.” 

“  It  does  imply  a  fault — and  a  great  one,”  she  rejoined, 
“  though  I  trust  not  an  unpardonable  one.  That  depends  on 
whether  you  can  repent  of  it.” 

She  spoke  with  such  a  serious  air,  that  Percivale  grew  uneasy, 
and  began  to  wonder  what  he  could  possibly  have  done  to 
offend  her.  I  had  told  him  nothing  of  our  conversation,  wish¬ 
ing  her  to  have  her  own  way  with  him. 

When  she  saw  him  troubled,  she  smiled. 

“Is  it  not  a  fault,  Mr.  Percivale,  to  prevent  one  from 
obeying  the  divine  law  of  bearing  another’s  burden  ?  ” 

“  But,”  said  Percivale,  “  I  read  as  well,  that  every  man  shall 
bear  his  own  burden.” 

“  Ah  !  ”  returned  Lady  Bernard,  “  but  I  learn  from  Mr.  Cony- 
beare,  that  two  different  Greek  words  are  there  used,  which  we 
translate  only  by  the  English  burden.  I  cannot  tell  you  what 
they  are  :  I  can  only  tell  you  the  practical  result.  We  are  to 
bear  one  another’s  burdens  of  pain,  or  grief,  or  misfortune,  or 
doubt — whatever  weighs  one  down  is  to  be  borne  by  another; 
but  the  man  who  is  tempted  to  exalt  himself  over  his  neighbour, 
is  taught  to  remember  that  he  has  his  own  load  of  disgrace  to 
bear  and  answer  for.  It  is  just  a  weaker  form  of  the  lesson 
of  the  mote  and  the  beam.  You  cannot  get  out  at  that  door, 
Mr.  Percivale.  I  beg  you  will  read  the  passage  in  your  Greek 
Testament,  and  see  if  you  have  not  misapplied  it.  You  ought 
to  have  let  me  bear  your  burden.” 

“Well,  you  see,  my  dear  Lady  Bernard,”  returned  Percivale, 
at  a  loss  to  reply  to  such  a  vigorous  assault,  “  I  knew  how  it 
would  be.  You  would  have  come  here  and  bought  pictures 
you  didn’t  want;  and  I,  knowing  all  the  time  you  did  it  only 
to  give  me  the  money,  should  have  had  to  talk  to  you  as  if  I 
were  taken  in  by  it ;  and  I  really  could  not  stand  it.” 

“  There  you  are  altogether  wrong.  Besides  depriving  me  of 
the  opportunity  of  fulfilling  a  duty  and  of  the  pleasure  and  the 
honour  of  helping  to  bear  your  burden,  you  have  deprived  me 


2Q<S  -  77/^  Vicar  s  Daughter. 

of  the  opportunity  of  indulging  a  positive  passion  for  pictures. 
I  am  constantly  compelled  to  restrain  it  lest  I  should  spend  too 
much  of  the  money  given  me  for  the  common  good  on  my  own 
private  tastes  ;  but  here  was  a  chance  for  me  !  I  might  have 
had  some  of  your  lovely  pictures  in  my  drawing-room  now — ■ 
with  a  good  conscience  and  a  happy  heart — if  you  had  only 
been  friendly.  It  was  too  bad  of  you,  Mr.  Percivale  !  I  am 
not  pretending  in  the  least  when  I  assert  that  I  am  really  and 
thoroughly  disappointed.” 

“  I  haven’t  a  word  to  say  for  myself,”  returned  Percivale. 

“You  couldn’t  have  said  a  better,”  rejoined  Lady  Bernard; 
“  but  I  hope  you  will  never  have  it  to  say  again.” 

“  That  I  shall  not.  If  ever  I  find  myself  in  any  difficulty 
worth  speaking  of,  I  will  let  you  know  at  once.” 

“Thank  you.  Then  we  are  friends  again. — And  now  I  do 
think  I  am  entitled  to  a  picture — at  least  I  think  it  will  be 
pardonable  if  I  yield  to  the  very  strong  temptation  I  am  under 
at  this  moment  to  buy  one.  Let  me  see :  what  have  you  in 
the  slave  market,  as  your  wife  calls  it  ?  ” 

She  bought  “  The  Street  Musician,”  as  Percivale  had  named 
the  picture  taken  from  Dr.  Donne.  I  was  more  miserable  than 
I  ought  to  have  been  when  1  found  he  had  parted  with  it,  but 
it  was  a  great  consolation  to  think  it  was  to  Lady  Bernard’s  it 
had  gone.  She  was  the  only  one,  except  my  mother  or  Miss 
Clare,  I  could  have  borne  to  think  of  as  having  become  its 
possessor. 

He  had  asked  her  what  I  thought  a  very  low  price  for  it ; 
and  I  judge  that  Lady  Bernard  thought  the  same,  but  after 
what  had  passed  between  them,  would  not  venture  to  expostu¬ 
late.  With  such  a  man  as  my  husband  I  fancy  she  thought 
it  best  to  let  well  alone.  Anyhow,  one  day  soon  after  this, 
her  servant  brought  him  a  little  box,  containing  a  fine  bril¬ 
liant. 

“  The  good  lady’s  kindness  is  long-sighted,”  said  my  husband, 
as  he  placed  it  on  his  finger.  “  I  shall  be  hard  up,  though, 
before  I  part  with  this.  Wynnie,  I’ve  actually  got  a  finer 


Retrospective .  299 

diamond  than  Mr.  Baddeley  !  It  is  a  beauty,  if  ever  there  was 
one  !  ” 

My  husband,  with  all  his  carelessness  of  dress  and  adornment 
has  almost  a  passion  for  stones.  It  is  delightful  to  hear  him 
talk  about  them.  But  he  had  never  possessed  a  single  gem 
before  Lady  Bernard  made  him  this  present  I  believe  he  is 
child  enough  to  be  happier  for  it  all  his  life. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

RETROSPECTIVE. 

Suddenly  I  become  aware  that  I  am  drawing  nigh  the  close  of 
my  monthly  labours  for  a  long  year.  Yet  the  year  seems  to 
have  passed  more  rapidly  because  of  this  addition  to  my 
anxieties.  Not  that  I  haven’t  enjoyed  the  labour  while  I  have 
been  actually  engaged  in  it,  but  the  prospect  of  the  next 
month’s  work  would  often  come  in  to  damp  the  pleasure  of  the 
present ;  making  me  fancy  as  the  close  of  each  chapter  drew 
near,  that  I  should  not  have  material  for  another  left  in  my 
head.  I  heard  a  friend  once  remark  that  it  is  not  the  cares  of 
to-day,  but  the  cares  of  to-morrow  that  weigh  a  man  down.  For 
the  day  we  have  the  corresponding  strength  given ;  for  the 
morrow  we  are  told  to  trust :  it  is  not  ours  yet. 

When  I  get  my  money  for  my  work,  I  mean  to  give  my  hus¬ 
band  a  long  holiday.  I  half  think  of  taking  him  to  Italy,  for  of 
course  I  can  do  what  I  like  with  my  own,  whether  husband  or 
money — and  so  have  a  hand  in  making  him  a  still  better 
painter.  Incapable  of  imitation,  the  sight  of  any  real  work  is 
always  of  great  service  to  him,  widening  his  sense  of  art, 
enlarging  his  idea  of  what  can  be  done,  rousing  what  part  of 
his  being  is  most  in  sympathy  with  it — a  part  possibly  as  yet 


300 


The  Vicar's  Daughter. 

only  half  awake ;  in  a  word  leading  him  another  step  towards 
that  simplicity  which  is  at  the  root  of  all  diversity,  being  so 
simple  that  it  needs  all  diversity  to  set  it  forth. 

How  impossible  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  should  ever  write 
a  book  !  Well  or  ill  done,  it  is  almost  finished,  for  the  next 
month  is  the  twelfth.  I  must  look  back  upon  what  I  have 
written,  to  see  what  loose  ends  I  may  have  left,  and  whether 
any  allusion  has  not  been  followed  up  with  a  needful  explana¬ 
tion  ;  for  this  way  of  writing  by  portions,  the  only  way  in  which 
I  could  have  been  persuaded  to  attempt  the  work  however,  is 
unfavourable  to  artistic  unity — an  unnecessary  remark,  seeing 
that  to  such  unity  my  work  makes  no  pretensions.  It  is  but  a 
collection  of  portions  detached  from  an  uneventful,  ordinary, 
and  perhaps  in  part  therefore  very  blessed  life.  Hence  perhaps 
it  was  specially  fitted  for  this  mode  of  publication.  At  all 
events  I  can  cast  upon  it  none  of  the  blame  of  what  failure  I 
may  have  to  confess. 

A  biography  cannot  be  constructed  with  the  art  of  a  novel, 
for  this  reason,  that  a  novel  is  constructed  on  the  artist’s  scale, 
with  swift  returning  curves  ;  a  biography  on  the  divine  scale, 
whose  circles  are  so  large  that  they  shoot  beyond  this  world, 
sometimes  even  before  we  are  able  to  delect  in  them  the  curve 
by  which  they  will  at  length  round  themselves  back  towards 
completion.  Hence  every  life  must  look  more  or  less  frag¬ 
mentary,  and  more  or  less  out  of  drawing  perhaps — not  to  men¬ 
tion  the  questionable  effects  in  colour  and  tone  where  the  model 
himself  will  insist  on  taking  palette  and  brushes,  and  laying 
childish,  if  not  passionate,  conceited,  ambitious,  or  even  spite¬ 
ful  hands  to  the  work. 

I  do  not  find  that  I  have  greatly  blundered,  or  omitted 
much  that  I  ought  to  have  mentioned.  One  odd  thing  is,  that 
in  the  opening  conversation  in  which  they  urge  me  to  the 
attempt,  I  have  not  mentioned  Marion.  I  do  not  mean  that 
she  was  present,  but  that  surely  some  one  must  have  suggested 
her  and  her  history  as  affording  endless  material  for  my  re¬ 
cord.  A  thing  apparently  but  not  really  strange,  is,  that  I  have 


30i 


Retrospective . 

never  said  a  word  about  the  Mrs.  Cromwell  mentic  ned  in 
the  same  conversation.  The  fact  is  that  I  have  but  just 
arrived  at  the  part  of  my  story  where  she  first  comes  in. 
She  died  about  three  months  ago,  and  I  can  therefore  with 
the  more  freedom  narrate  in  the  next  chapter  what  I  have 
known  of  her. 

I  find  also  that  I  have,  in  the  fourth  chapter,  by  some  odd 
cerebro-mechanical  freak,  substituted  the  name  of  my  aunt 
Martha  for  that  of  my  aunt  Millicent,  another  sister  of  my 
father,  whom  he  has  not,  I  believe,  had  occasion  to  mention 
in  either  of  his  preceding  books.  My  aunt  Martha  is  Mrs. 
Weir,  and  has  no  children ;  my  aunt  Millicent  is  Mrs.  Parsons, 
married  to  a  hard-working  attorney,  and  has  twelve  children, 
now  mostly  grown  up. 

I  find  also  in  the  thirteenth  chapter,  an  unexplained  allusion. 
There  my  husband  says  :  “  Just  ask  my  brother  his  experience 
in  regard  of  the  word  to  which  you  object.”  The  word  was 
stomach ,  at  the  use  of  which  I  had  in  my  ill-temper  taken 
umbrage  :  however  disagreeable  a  word  in  itself,  surely  a 
husband  might,  if  need  be,  use  it  without  offence.  It  will  be 
proof  enough  that  my  objection  arose  from  pure  ill-temper 
when  I  state  that  I'  have  since  asked  Roger  to  what  Percivale 
referred.  His  reply  was,  that,  having  been  requested  by  a  cer¬ 
tain  person  who  had  a  school  for  young  ladies  — probably  she 
called  it  a  college — to  give  her  pupils  a  few  lectures  on 
physiology,  he  could  not  go  far  in  the  course  without  finding  it 
necessary  to  make  a  not  unfrequent  use  of  the  word,  explaining 
the  functions  of  the  organ  to  which  the  name  belonged,  as 
resembling  those  of  a  mill.  After  the  lecture  was  over,  the 
school-mistress  took  him  aside,  and  said  she  really  could  not 
allow  her  young  ladies  to  be  made  familiar  with  such  words. 
Roger  averred  that  the  word  was  absolutely  necessary  to  the 
subject  upon  which  she  had  desired  his  lectures ;  and  that  he 
did  not  know  how  any  instruction  in  physiology  could  be  given 
without  the  free  use  of  it.  “  No  doubt,”  she  returned,  “you 
must  recognize  the  existence  of  the  organ  in  question,  but  as 


302 


The  Vicars  Daughter . 

the  name  of  it  is  offensive  to  ears  polite,  could  you  not  substi¬ 
tute  another?  You  have  just  said  that  its  operations  resemble 
those  of  a  mill :  could  you  not  as  often  as  you  require  to  speak 
of  it  refer  to  it  in  future  as  the  mill  ?  ”  Roger,  with  great  difficulty 
repressing  his  laughter,  consented  ;  but  in  his  next  lecture  made 
far  more  frequent  reference  to  the  mill  than  was  necessary, 
using  the  word  every  time — I  know  exactly  how — with  a  cer¬ 
tain  absurd  solemnity  that  must  have  been  irresistible.  The 
girls  went  into  fits  of  laughter  at  the  first  utterance  of  it,  and 
seemed,  he  said,  during  the  whole  lecture  intent  only  on  the 
new  term,  at  every  recurrence  of  which  their  laughter  burst 
out  afresh.  Doubtless  their  school-mistress  had  herself  prepared 
them  to  fall  into  Roger’s  trap.  The  same  night  he  received 
a  note  from  her,  enclosing  his  fee  for  the  lectures  given,  and 
informing  him  that  the  rest  of  the  course  would  not  be  required. 
Roger  sent  back  the  money,  saying  that  to  accept  part  payment 
would  be  to  renounce  his  claim  for  the  whole;  and  that  besides, 
he  had  already  received  an  amount  of  amusement  quite  suffi¬ 
cient  to  reward  him  for  his  labour.  I  told  him  I  thought  he 
had  been  rather  cruel  ;  but  he  said  such  a  woman  wanted  a 
lesson.  He  said  also  that  to  see  the  sort  of  women  who  some¬ 
times  had  the  responsibility  of  training  girls,  must  make  the 
angels  weep ;  none  but  a  heartless  mortal  like  himself  could 
laugh  where  conventionality  and  insincerity  were  taught  in 
every  hint  as  to  posture  and  speech.  It  was  bad  enough,  he 
said,  to  shape  yourself  into  your  own  ideal,  but  to  have  to 
fashion  yourself  after  the  ideal  of  one  whose  sole  object  in 
teaching  was  to  make  money,  was  something  wretched  indeed. 

I  fine  besides  that  several  intentions  I  had  when  I 
started,  have  fallen  out  of  the  scheme.  Somehow  the  sub¬ 
jects  would  not  well  come  in,  or  I  felt  that  I  was  in  danger 
of  injuring  the  persons  in  the  attempt  to  set  forth  their 
opinions. 


s 


Mrs.  Cromwell  Comes. 


3-3 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

MRS.  CROMWELL  COMES. 

The  moment  the  legacy  was  paid,  our  liabilities  being  already 
nearly  discharged,  my  husband  took  us  all  to  Hastings.  I  had 
never  before  been  to  any  other  sea-coast  town  where  the  land 
was  worthy  of  the  sea,  except  Kilkhaven.  Assuredly  there  is 
no  place  within  easy  reach  of  London  to  be  once  mentioned 
with  Hastings.  Of  course  we  kept  clear  of  the  more  fashion¬ 
able  and  commonplace  St.  Leonard’s  end,  where  yet  the  sea  is 
the  same — a  sea  such  that,  not  even  off  Cornwall,  have  I  seen 
so  many  varieties  of  ocean-aspect.  The  immediate  shore,  with 
its  earthy  cliffs,  is  vastly  inferior  to  the  magnificent  rock 
about  Tintagel,  but  there  is  no  outlook  on  the  sea  that  I  know 
more  satisfying  than  that  from  the  heights  of  Hastings,  especially 
the  East  Hill;  from  the  west  side  of  which  also  you  may,  when 
weary  of  the  ocean,  look  straight  down  on  the  ancient  port, 
with  its  old  houses,  and  fine  multiform  red  roofs,  through  the 
gauze  of  blue  smoke  which  at  eve  of  a  summer  day  fills  the 
narrow  valley,  softening  the  rough  goings-on  of  life  into  har¬ 
mony  with  the  gentleness  of  sea  and  shore,  field  and  sky. 
No  doubt  the  suburbs  are  as  unsightly  as  mere  boxes  of  brick 
and  lime  can  be,  with  an  ugliness  mean  because  pretentious  — 
an  altogether  modern  ugliness  ;  but  even  this  cannot  touch  the 
essential  beauty  of  the  place. 

On  the  brow  of  this  East  Hill,  just  where  it  begins  to  sink 
towards  Ecclesbourne  Glen,  stands  a  small  old  rickety  house  in 
the  midst  of  the  sweet  grass  of  the  downs.  This  house  my 
husband  was  fortunate  in  finding  to  let,  and  took  for  three 
months.  I  am  not  however  going  to  give  any  history  of  how 
we  spent  them— my  sole  reason  for  mentioning  Hastings  at  all 
being  that  there  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  Mrs.  Cromwell. 
It  was  on  this  wise. 


304 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter . 

One  bright  day  about  noon — almost  all  the  days  of  those 
months  were  gorgeous  with  sunlight — a  rather  fashionable  maid 
ran  up  our  little  garden,  begging  for  some  water  for  her 
mistress.  Sending  her  on  with  the  water,  I  myself  followed 
with  a  glass  of  sherry. 

The  door  in  our  garden-hedge  opened  immediately  on  a 
green  hollow  in  the  hill,  sloping  towards  the  glen.  As  I  stepped 
from  the  little  gate  on  to  the  grass,  I  saw  to  my  surprise  that  a 
white  fog  was  blowing  in  from  the  sea.  The  heights  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  glen,  partially  obscured  thereby,  looked 
more  majestic  than  was  their  wont,  and  were  mottled  with 
patches  of  duller  and  brighter  colour  as  the  drifts  of  the  fog 
were  heaped  or  parted  here  and  there.  Far  down,  at  the  foot 
of  the  cliffs,  the  waves  of  the  rising  tide,  driven  shorewards  with 
the  added  force  of  a  south-west  breeze,  caught  and  threw  back 
what  sunlight  reached  them,  and  thinned  with  their  shine  the 
fog  between.  It  was  all  so  strange  and  fine,  and  had  come 
on  so  suddenly,  for  when  I  had  looked  out  a  few  minutes 
before,  sea  and  sky  were  purely  resplendent,  that  I  stood  a 
moment  or  two  and  gazed,  almost  forgetting  why  I  was  there. 

When  I  bethought  myself  and  looked  about  me,  I  saw,  in 
the  sheltered  hollow  before  me,  a  lady  seated  in  a  curiously 
shaped  chair,  so  constructed  in  fact  as  to  form  upon  occasion  a 
kind  of  litter.  It  was  plain  she  was  an  invalid — from  her  pale¬ 
ness,  and  the  tension  of  the  skin  on  her  face,  revealing  the 
outline  of  the  bones  beneath.  Her  features  were  finely  formed 
but  rather  small,  and  her  forehead  low — a  Greek-like  face,  with 
large  pale-blue  eyes  that  reminded  me  of  little  Amy  Morley’s. 
She  smiled  very  sweetly  when  she  saw  me,  and  shook  her  head 
at  the  wine. 

‘‘  I  only  wanted  a  little  water,”  she  said.  “  This  fog  seems  to 
stifle  me.” 

“  It  has  come  on  very  suddenly,”  I  said.  “  Perhaps  it  is  the 
cold  of  it  that  affects  your  breathing.  You  don’t  seem  very 
strong,  and  any  sudden  change  of  temperature — ” 

“  I  am  not  one  of  the  most  vigorous  of  mortals,”  she 


Mrs.  Cromwell  Comes . 


305 


answered,  with  a  sad  smile;  “but  the  day  seemed  of  such  in* 
dubitable  character  that  after  my  husband  had  brought  me  here 
in  the  carriage,  he  sent  it  home  and  left  me  with  my  maid, 
while  he  went  for  a  long  walk  across  the  downs.  When  lie 
sees  the  change  in  the  weather,  though,  he  will  turn  directly.” 

“  It  won’t  do  to  wait  him  here,”  I  said.  “  We  must  get  you 
in  at  once.  W ould  it  be  wrong  to  press  you  to  take  a  little  of 
this  wine — -just  to  counteract  a  chill  ?  ” 

“  I  daren’t  touch  anything  but  water,”  she  replied.  “  It  would 
make  me  feverish  at  once.” 

“  Run  and  tell  the  cook,”  I  said  to  the  maid,  “  that  I  want 
her  here.  You  and  she  could  carry  your  mistress  in — could 
you  not  ?  I  will  help  you.” 

“There’s  no  occasion  for  that,  ma’am — she’s  as  light  as  a 
feather,”  was  the  whispered  answer. 

“  I’m  quite  ashamed  of  giving  you  so  much  trouble,”  said  the 
lady,  either  hearing  or  guessing  at  our  wrords.  “  My  husband 
will  be  very  grateful  to  you.” 

“  It  is  only  an  act  of  common  humanity,”  I  said. 

But  as  I  spoke,  I  fancied  her  fair  brow  clouded  a  little,  as  if 
she  was  not  accustomed  to  common  humanity,  and  the  word 
sounded  harsh  in  her  ear.  The  cloud  however  passed  so 
quickly  that  I  doubted,  until  I  knew  her  better,  whether  it  had 
really  been  there. 

The  two  maids  were  now  ready,  and,  Jemima  instructed  by 
the  other,  they  lifted  her  with  the  utmost  ease  and  bore  her 
gently  towards  the  house.  The  garden-gate  was  just  wide 
enough  to  let  the  chair  through,  and  in  a  minute  more  she 
was  upon  the  sofa.  Then  a  fit  of  coughing  came  on  which 
shook  her  dreadfully.  When  it  had  passed,  she  lay  quiet  with 
closed  eyes,  and  a  smile  hovering  about  her  sweet,  thin-lipped 
mouth.  By-and-by  she  opened  them  and  looked  at  me  with  a 
pitiful  expression. 

“  I  fear  you  are  far  from  well,”  I  said. 

“  I’m  dying,”  she  returned  quietly. 

“  I  hope  not,”  was  all  I  could  answer. 


x 


30  6 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter. 

“  Why  should  you  hope  not  ?  ”  she  returned.  “  I  am  in  no 
strait  betwixt  two.  I  desire  to  depart.  For  me  to  die  will  be 
all  gain.” 

“  But  your  friends  ?”  I  ventured  to  suggest,  feeling  my  way, 
and  not  quite  relishing  either  the  form  or  tone  of  her 
utterance. 

“  I  have  none  but  my  husband.” 

“  Then  your  husband,”  I  persisted. 

“  Ah  !  ”  she  said,  mournfully,  “  he  will  miss  me,  no  doubt, 
for  a  while.  But  it  must  be  a  weight  off  him,  for  I  have  been  a 
sufferer  so  long  !  ” 

At  this  moment,  I  heard  a  heavy  hasty  step  in  the  passage  ; 
the  next,  the  room  door  opened,  and  in  came,  in  hot  haste, 
wiping  his  red  face,  a  burly  man,  clumsy  and  active,  with  an 
umbrella  in  his  hand,  followed  by  a  great  lumbering  Newfound¬ 
land  dog. 

“  Down,  Polyphemus  !  ”  he  said  to  the  dog,  which  crept 
under  a  chair ;  while  he,  taking  no  notice  of  my  presence, 
hurried  up  to  his  wife. 

“My  love!  my  little  dove!”  he  said  eagerly;  “did  you 
think  I  had  forsaken  you  to  the  cruel  elements  ?  ” 

“  No,  Alcibiades,”  she  answered,  with  a  sweet  little  drawl; 
“  but  you  do  not  observe  that  I  am  not  the  only  lady  in  the 
room.” 

Then  turning  to  me — “  This  is  my  husband,  Mr.  Crom  : 
well,”  she  said.  “  I  cannot  tell  him  y our  name.” 

“  I  am  Mrs.  Percivale,”  I  returned,  almost  mechanically,  for 
the  gentleman’s  two  names  had  run  together  and  were  sounding 
in  my  head: — Alcibiades  Cromwell!  How  could  such  a  con¬ 
junction  have  taken  place  without  the  intervention  of  Charles 
Dickens  ? 

“  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma’am,”  said  Mr.  Cromwell,  bowing. 
“  Permit  my  anxiety  about  my  poor  wife  to  cover  my  rudeness. 
I  had  climbed  the  other  side  of  the  glen  before  I  saw  the  fog, 
and  it  is  no  such  easy  matter  to  get  up  and  down  these  hills  of 
yours.  I  am  greatly  obliged  to  you  for  your  hospitality.  You 


Mrs.  Cromwell  Comes . 


3°7 

have  doubtless  saved  her  life ;  for  she  is  a  frail  flower — shrinking 
from  the  least  breath  of  cold.” 

The  lady  closed  her  eyes  again,  and  the  gentleman  took  her 
hand  and  felt  her  pulse.  He  seemed  about  twice  her  age — she 
not  thirty,  he  well  past  fifty — the  top  of  his  head  bald,  and 
his  grey  hair  sticking  out  fiercely  over  his  good-natured  red 
cheeks.  He  laid  her  hand  gently  down,  put  his  hat  on  the 
table  and  his  umbrella  in  a  comer,  wiped  his  face  again,  drew 
a  chair  near  the  sofa,  and  took  his  place  by  her  side.  I  thought 
it  better  to  leave  them. 

When  I  re-entered  after  a  while,  I  saw  from  the  windows, 
which  looked  sea-ward,  that  the  wind  had  risen,  and  was  driving 
thin  drifts  no  longer,  but  great  thick  white  masses  of  sea-fog 
landwards.  It  was  the  storm-wind  of  that  coast — the  south¬ 
west — which  dashes  the  pebbles  over  the  Parade,  and  the  heavy 
spray  against  the  houses.  Mr.  Alcibiades  Cromwell  was  sit¬ 
ting  as  I  had  left  him,  silent  by  the  side  of  his  wife,  whose 
blue-veined  eyelids  had  apparently  never  been  lifted  from  her 
large  eyes. 

“  Is  there  anything  I  could  offer  Mrs.  Cromwell  ?  ”  I  said. 
“  Could  she  not  eat  something  ?  ” 

“  It  is  very  little  she  can  take,”  he  answered ;  “  but  you  are 
very  kind.  If  you  could  let  her  have  a  little  beef-tea?  She 
generally  has  a  spoonful  or  two  about  this  time  of  the  day.” 

“  I  am  sorry  we  have  none,”  I  said;  “and  it  would  be  far 
too  long  for  her  to  wait.  I  have  a  nice  chicken  though, 
ready  for  cooking  :  if  she  could  take  a  little  chicken-broth,  that 
would  be  ready  in  a  very  little  while.” 

“Thank  you  a  thousand  times,  ma’am,”  he  said  heartily  ; 
“  nothing  could  be  better.  She  might  even  be  induced  to  eat 
a  mouthful  of  the  chicken.  But  I  am  afraid  your  extreme  kind¬ 
ness  prevents  me  from  being  so  thoroughly  ashamed  as  I 
ought  to  be  at  putting  you  to  so  much  trouble  for  perfect 
strangers.” 

“  It  is  but  a  pleasure  to  be  of  service  to  any  one  in  want  of 
it,”  I  said. 


x  2 


308 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter . 

Mrs.  Cromwell  opened  her  eyes  and  smiled  gratefully.  I  left 
the  room  to  give  orde.s  about  the  chicken— indeed  to  superin¬ 
tend  the  preparation  of  it  myself,  for  Jemima  could  not  be  alto¬ 
gether  trusted  in  such  a  delicate  affair  as  cooking  for  an 
invalid. 

When  I  returned,  having  set  the  simple  operation  going, 
Mr.  Cromwell  had  a  little  hymn-book  of  mine  he  had  found  on 
the  table  open  in  his  hand,  and  his  wife  was  saying  to  him, — 

“  That  is  lovely  !  Thank  you,  husband.  How  can  it  be  I 
never  saw  it  before  ?  I  am  quite  astonished.” 

“  She  little  knows  what  multitudes  of  hymns  there  are  !  ”  I 
thought  with  myself— my  father  having  made  a  collection, 
whence  I  had  some  idea  of  the  extent  of  that  department  of 
religious  literature. 

“This  is  a  hymn-book  we  are  not  acquainted  with,”  said 
Mr.  Cromwell,  addressing  me. 

“  It  is  not  much  known,”  I  answered.  “  It  was  compiled  by 
a  friend  of  my  father’s  for  his  own  schools.” 

“  And  this,”  he  went  on,  “is  a  very  beautiful  hymn.  You 
may  trust  my  wife’s  judgment,  Mrs.  Percivale.  She  lives 
upon  hymns.” 

He  read  the  first  line  to  show  which  he  meant.  I  had 
long  thought,  and  still  think  it  the  most  beautiful  hymn  I 
know.  It  was  taken  from  the  German,  only  much  improved  in 
the  taking,  and  given  to  my  father  to  do  what  he  pleased  with, 
and  my  father  had  given  it  to  another  friend  for  his  collec¬ 
tion. 

Before  that,  however,  while  still  in  manuscript,  it  had  fallen 
into  the  hands  of  a  certain  clergyman,  by  whom  it  had  been 
published  without  leave  asked,  or  apology  made  ;  a  rudeness  of 
which  neither  my  father  nor  the  author  would  have  complained, 
for  it  was  a  pleasure  to  think  it  might  thus  reach  many  to  whom 
it  would  be  helpful ;  but  they  both  felt  aggrieved  and  indignant 
that  he  had  taken  the  dishonest  liberty  of  altering  certain  lines 
of  it  to  suit  his  own  opinions.  As  I  am  anxious  to  give  it 
all  the  publicity  I  can,  from  pure  delight  in  it,  and  love  to  all 


Mrs.  Cromwell  Comes. 


309 


who  are  capable  of  the  same  delight,  I  shall  here  communicate 
it,  in  the  full  confidence  of  thus  establishing  a  claim  on  the 
gratitude  of  my  readers. 

O  Lord,  how  happy  is  the  time 
When  in  thy  love  I  rest ! 

When  from  my  weariness  I  climb 
Even  to  thy  tender  breast ! 

The  night  of  sorrow  endeth  there — ■ 

Thou  art  brighter  than  the  sun  ; 

And  in  thy  pardon  and  thy  care 
The  heaven  of  heaven  is  won. 

Let  the  world  call  herself  my  foe, 

Or  let  the  world  allure  : 

I  care  not  for  the  world — I  go 
To  this  dear  friend  and  sure. 

And  when  life’s  fiercest  storms  are  sen 
Upon  life’s  wildest  sea, 

My  little  bark  is  confident, 

Because  it  holds  by  thee. 

When  the  law  threatens  endless  death 
Upon  the  awful  hill  ; 

Straightway  from  her  consuming  breath 
My  soul  goes  higher  still  ; — 

Goeth  to  Jesus,  wounded,  slain, 

And  maketh  him  her  home, 

Whence  she  will  not  go  out  again, 

And  where  death  cannot  come. 

I  do  not  fear  the  wilderness 
Where  thou  hast  been  before  : 

Nay  rather  will  I  daily  press 
After  thee,  near  thee,  more. 

Thou  art  my  food  ;  on  thee  I  lean  5 
Thou  makest  my  heart  sing ; 

And  to  thy  heavenly  pastures  green 
All  thy  dear  Hock  dost  bring. 


3io 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter . 

And  if  the  gate  that  opens  there 
Be  dark  to  other  men, 

It  is  not  dark  to  those  who  share 
The  heart  of  Jesus  then. 

That  is  not  losing  much  of  life 
Which  is  not  losing  thee, 

Who  art  as  present  in  the  strife 
As  in  the  victory. 

Therefore  how  happy  is  the  time 
When  in  thy  love  I  rest  ! 

When  from  my  weariness  I  climb 
Even  to  thy  tender  breast : 

The  night  of  sorrow  endeth  there — • 

Thou  art  brighter  than  the  sun  5 
And  in  thy  pardon  and  thy  care 
The  heaven  of  heaven  is  won.1 

In  telling  them  a  few  of  the  facts  connected  with  the  hymn, 
I  presume  I  had  manifested  my  admiration  of  it  with  some 
degree  of  fervour. 

“  Ah  !  ”  said  Mrs.  Cromwell,  opening  her  eyes  very  wide, 
and  letting  the  rising  tears  fill  them — “Ah,  Mrs.  Percivale ! 
you  are — you  must  be  one  of  us  !  ” 

“  You  must  tell  me  first  who  you  are,”  I  said. 

She  held  out  her  hand ;  I  gave  her  mine ;  she  drew  me 
towards  her,  and  whispered  almost  in  my  ear — though  why  or 
whence  the  affectation  of  secrecy  I  can  only  imagine — the 
name  of  a  certain  small  and  exclusive  sect.  I  will  not  indi¬ 
cate  it,  lest  I  should  be  supposed  to  attribute  to  it  either  the 
peculiar  faults  or  virtues  of  my  new  acquaintance. 

“  No,”  I  answered,  speaking  with  the  calmness  of  self-com¬ 
pulsion,  for  I  confess  I  felt  repelled ;  “  I  am  not  one  of  you, 
except  in  as  far  as  we  all  belong  to  the  church  of  Christ.” 

I  have  thought  since  how  much  better  it  would  have  been 
to  say,  “Yes ;  for  we  all  belong  to  the  church  of  Christ.” 

lccWie  wohl  ist  rnir,  O  Freund  der  Seelen;”  translated  by  a 
friend  of  the  author. 


M rs.  Cromwell  Comes,  3 1 1 

She  gave  a  little  sigh  of  disappointment,  closed  her  eyes 
for  a  moment,  opened  them  again  with  a  smile,  and  said,  with 
a  pleading  tone, — - 

“  But  do  you  believe  in  personal  religion  ?  ” 

“  I  don't  see,”  I  returned,  “  how  religion  can  be  anything 
but  personal.” 

Again  she  closed  her  eyes,  in  a  way  that  made  me  think 
how  convenient  bad  health  must  be — conferring  not  only  the 
privilege  of  passing  into  retirement  at  any  desirable  moment, 
but  of  doing  so  in  such  a  ready  and  easy  manner  as  the  mere 
dropping  of  the  eyelids. 

I  rose  to  leave  the  room  once  more.  Mr.  Cromwell,  who 
had  made  way  for  me  to  sit  beside  his  wife,  stood  looking 
out  of  the  window,  against  which  came  sweeping  the  great 
volumes  of  mist.  I  glanced  out  also.  Not  only  was  the  sea 
invisible,  but  even  the  brow  of  the  cliffs.  When  he  turned 
towards  me  as  I  passed  him,  I  saw  that  his  face  had  lost 
much  of  its  rubicund  hue,  and  looked  troubled  and  anxious. 

“There  is  nothing  for  it,”  I  said  to  myself,  “but  keep 
them  all  night,”  and  so  gave  directions  to  have  a  bedroom 
prepared  for  them.  I  did  not  much  like  it,  I  confess ;  for  I 
was  not  much  interested  in  either  of  them,  while  of  the  sect 
to  which  she  belonged  I  knew  enough  already  to  be  aware 
that  it  was  of  the  narrowest  and  most  sectarian  in  Christen¬ 
dom.  It  was  a  pity  she  had  sought  to  claim  me  by  a  would- 
be  closer  bond  than  that  of  the  body  of  Christ.  Still  I  knew 
I  should  be  myself  a  sectary  if  I  therefore  excluded  her  from 
my  best  sympathies.  At  the  same  time  I  did  feel  some 
curiosity  concerning  the  oddly  yoked  couple,  and  wondered 
whether  the  lady  was  really  so  ill  as  she  would  appear.  I 
doubted  whether  she  might  not  be  using  her  illness  both  as 
an  excuse  for  self-indulgence,  and  as  a  means  of  keeping  her 
husband’s  interest  in  her  on  the  stretch.  I  did  not  like  the 
wearing  of  her  religion  on  her  sleeve,  nor  the  mellifluous  drawl 
in  which  she  spoke. 

When  the  chicken-broth  was  ready,  she  partook  daintily  ; 


312 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter. 

but  before  she  ended,  had  made  a  very  good  meal,  including 
a  wing  and  a  bit  of  the  breast ;  after  which  she  fell  asleep. 

“  There  seems  little  chance  of  the  weather  clearing/’  said 
Mr.  Cromwell  in  a  whisper,  as  I  approached  the  window 
where  he  once  more  stood. 

“  You  must  make  up  your  mind  to  remain  here  for  the 
night/’  I  said. 

“  My  dear  madam,  I  couldn’t  think  of  it,”  he  returned — I 
thought  from  unwillingness  to  incommode  a  strange  house¬ 
hold.  “  An  invalid  like  her — sweet  lamb  !  ” — he  went  on, 
“  requires  so  many  little  comforts  and  peculiar  contrivances  to 
entice  the  repose  she  so  greatly  needs,  that — that — in  short, 
I  must  get  her  home.” 

“  Where  do  you  live  ?  ”  I  asked,  not  sorry  to  find  his  inten¬ 
tion  of  going  so  fixed. 

“We  have  a  house  in  Warrior  Square,”  he  answered.  “  We 
live  in  London,  but  have  been  here  all  the  past  winter.  I 
doubt  if  she  improves  though.  I  doubt — I  doubt.” 

He  said  the  last  words  in  a  yet  lower  and  more  mournful 
whisper;  then,  with  a  shake  of  his  head,  turned  and  gazed 
again  through  the  window. 

A  peculiar  little  cough  from  the  sofa  made  us  both  look 
round.  Mrs.  Cromwell  was  awake,  and  searching  for  her 
handkerchief.  Her  husband  understood  her  movements,  and 
hurried  to  her  assistance.  When  she  took  the  handkerchief 
from  her  mouth,  there  was  a  red  spot  upon  it.  Mr.  Crom¬ 
well’s  face  turned  the  colour  of  lead ;  but  his  wife  looked  up 
at  him,  and  smiled — a  sweet,  consciously  pathetic  smile. 

“  He  has  sent  for  me,”  she  said.  “  The  messenger  has 
come.” 

Her  husband  made  no  answer.  His  eyes  seemed  starting 
from  his  head. 

“  Who  is  your  medical  man  ?  ”  I  asked  him. 

He  told  me,  and  I  sent  off  my  housemaid  to  fetch  him. 
It  was  a  long  hour  before  he  arrived,  during  which,  as  often 
as  I  peeped  in,  I  saw  him  sitting  silent  and  holding  her  hand— 


Mrs.  Cromwell  Comes . 


3*3 


until  the  last  time,  when  I  found  him  reading  a  hymn  to  her. 
She  was  apparently  once  more  asleep.  Nothing  could  be 
more  favourable  to  her  recovery  than  such  quietness  of  both 
body  and  mind. 

When  the  doctor  came,  and  had  listened  to  Mr.  Cromwell’s 
statement,  he  proceeded  to  examine  her  chest  with  much  care. 
That  over,  he  averred  in  her  hearing  that  he  found  nothing 
serious,  but  told  her  husband  apart  that  there  was  considerable 
mischief,  and  assured  me  afterwards  that  her  lungs  were  all  but 
gone,  and  that  she  could  not  live  beyond  a  month  or  two. 
She  had  better  be  removed  to  her  own  house,  he  said,  as 
speedily  as  possible. 

“  But  it  would  be  cruelty  to  send  her  out  a  day  like  this,’* 
I  returned. 

“  Yes,  yes  ;  I  did  not  mean  that,”  he  said.  “  But  to-morrow, 
perhaps.  You’ll  see  what  the  weather  is  like.  Is  Mrs.  Crom¬ 
well  an  old  friend  ?  ” 

“  I  never  saw  her  until  to-day,”  I  replied. 

“  Ah  !  ”  he  remarked,  and  said  no  more. 

We  got  her  to  bed  as  soon  as  possible.  I  may  just  men¬ 
tion  that  I  never  saw  anything  to  equal  the  point-devise  of  her 
under-clothing.  There  was  not  a  stitch  of  cotton  about  her, 
using  the  word  stitch  in  its  metaphorical  sense.  But  indeed  I 
doubt  whether  her  garments  were  not  all  made  with  linen 
thread.  Even  her  horse-hair  petticoat  was  quilted  with  rose- 
coloured  silk  inside. 

“  Surely  she  has  no  children  !  ”  I  said  to  myself — and  was 
right,  as  my  mother-readers  will  not  be  surprised  to  learn. 

It  was  a  week  before  she  got  up  again,  and  a  month  before 
she  was  carried  down  the  hill,  during  which  time  her  husband 
sat  up  with  her,  or  slept  on  a  sofa  in  the  room  beside  her, 
every  night.  During  the  day  I  took  a  share  in  the  nursing — 
which  was  by  no  means  oppressive,  for  she  did  not  suffer  much 
and  required  little.  Her  chief  demand  was  for  hymns,  the 
only  annoyance  connected  with  which  worth  mentioning  wa  , 
that  she  often  wished  me  to  admire  with  her  such  as  I  could 


314  The  Vicar's  Daughter. 

only  half  like,  and  occasionally  such  as  were  thoroughly  dis¬ 
tasteful  to  me.  Her  husband  had  brought  her  own  collection 
from  Warrior  Square — volumes  of  hymns  in  manuscript,  copied 
by  her  own  hand,  many  of  them  strange  to  me — none  of  thos* 

I  read  altogether  devoid  of  literary  merit,  and  some  of  then 
lovely  both  in  feeling  and  form.  But  all,  even  the  best,  which 
to  me  were  unobjectionable,  belonged  to  one  class — a  class 
breathing  a  certain  tone  difficult  to  describe — one  however 
which  I  find  characteristic  of  all  the  Roman  Catholic  hymns 
I  have  read.  I  will  not  indicate  any  of  her  selection  ;  neither, 
lest  I  should  be  supposed  to  object  to  this  or  that  one  answer¬ 
ing  to  the  general  description,  and  yet  worthy  of  all  respect,  or 
even  sympathy,  will  I  go  further  with  a  specification  of  their 
sort  than  to  say  that  what  pleased  me  in  them  was  their  full 
utterance  of  personal  devotion  to  the  Saviour,  and  that  what 
displeased  me  was  a  sort  of  sentimental  regard  of  self  in  the 
matter — an  implied  special,  and  thus  partially  exclusive  predi¬ 
lection  or  preference  of  the  Saviour  for  the  individual  sup¬ 
posed  to  be  making  use  of  them  ;  a  certain  fundamental  want 
of  humility  therefore,  although  the  forms  of  speech  in  which 
they  were  cast  might  be  laboriously  humble.  They  also  not 
unfrequently  manifested  a  great  leaning  to  the  forms  of 
earthly  show  as  representative  of  the  glories  of  that  kingdom 
which  the  Lord  says  is  within  21s. 

Likewise  the  manner  in  which  Mrs.  Cromwell  talked,  re¬ 
minded  me  much  of  the  way  in  which  a  nun  would  represent 
her  individual  relation  to  Christ.  I  can  best  show  what  I 
mean  by  giving  a  conversation  I  had  with  her  one  day  when 
she  was  recovering — which  she  did  with  wonderful  rapidity  up 
to  a  certain  point.  I  confess  I  shrink  a  little  from  reproducing 
it,  because  of  the  sacred  name  which,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  was 
far  too  often  upon  her  lips,  and  too  easily  uttered.  But  then 
she  was  made  so  different  from  me  ! 

The  fine  weather  had  returned  in  all  its  summer  glory,  and 
she  was  lying  on  a  couch  in  her  own  room  near  the  window, 
whence  she  could  gaze  on  the  expanse  of  sea  below — this 


Mrs,  Cromwell  Comes . 


3r5 


morning  streaked  with  the  most  delicate  gradations  of  distance, 
sweep  beyond  sweep,  line  and  band  and  ribbon  of  softly,  often 
but  slightly  varied  hue,  leading  the  eyes  on  and  on  into  the 
infinite.  There  may  have  been  some  atmospheric  illusion 
ending  off  the  show,  for  the  last  reaches  mingled  so  writh  the 
air  that  you  saw  no  horizon  line,  only  a  great  breadth  of  border, 
no  spot  in  which  could  you  appropriate  with  certainty  either 
to  sea  or  sky;  while  here  and  there  was  a  vessel  to  all  appear¬ 
ance  pursuing  its  path  in  the  sky  and  not  upon  the  sea.  It 
was,  as  some  of  my  readers  will  not  require  to  be  told,  a  still 
grey  forenoon,  with  a  film  of  cloud  over  all  the  heavens,  and 
many  horizontal  strata  of  deeper  but  varying  density  near  the 
horizon. 

Mrs.  Cromwell  had  lain  for  some  time  with  her  large  eyes 
fixed  on  the  farthest  confusion  of  sea  and  sky. 

“  I  have  been  sending  out  my  soul,55  she  said  at  length,  “  to 
travel  all  across  those  distances,  step  by  step,  on  to  the  gates 
of  pearl.  Who  knows  but  that  may  be  the  path  I  must  travel 
to  meet  the  bridegroom  ? 55 

“  The  way  is  wide,’5  I  said  :  “  what  if  you  should  miss 
him  ? 55 

I  spoke  almost  involuntarily.  The  style  of  her  talk  was 
very  distasteful  to  me,  and  I  had  just  been  thinking  of  what  I 
had  once  heard  my  father  say — that  at  no  time  were  people  in 
more  danger  of  being  theatrical  than  when  upon  their  death¬ 
beds. 

“No,55  she  returned,  with  a  smile  of  gentle  superiority; 
“ — no;  that  cannot  be.  Is  he  not  waiting  for  me?  Has  he 
not  chosen  me,  and  called  me  for  his  own  ?  Is  not  my  Jesus 
mine  ?  I  shall  riot  miss  him.  He  waits  to  give  me  my  new 
name,  and  clothe  me  in  the  garments  of  righteousness.55 

As  she  spoke,  she  clasped  her  thin  hands  and  looked  up¬ 
wards  with  a  ^radiant  expression.  Far  as  it  was  from  me  to 
hint,  even  in  my  own  soul,  that  the  Saviour  was  not  hers,  ten¬ 
fold  more  hers  than  she  was  able  to  think,  I  could  not  at  the 
same  time  but  doubt  whether  her  heart  and  soul  and  mind 


3t6 


The  Vicars  Daughter. 

were  as  close  to  him  as  her  words  would  indicate  she  thought 
they  were.  She  could  not  be  wrong  in  trusting  him,  but  could 
she  be  right  in  her  notion  of  the  measure  to  which  her  union 
with  him  had  been  perfected  ?  I  could  not  help  thinking  that 
a  little  fear,  soon  to  pass  into  reverence,  might  be  to  her  a 
salutary  thing.  The  fear,  I  thought,  would  heighten  and  deepen 
the  love,  and  purify  it  from  that  self  which  haunted  her  whole 
consciousness,  and  of  which  she  had  not  yet  sickened,  as  one 
day  she  certainly  must. 

“  My  lamp  is  burning,”  she  said.  “  I  feel  it  burning.  I  love 
my  Lord.  It  would  befalse  to  say  otherwise.” 

“  Are  you  sure  you  have  oil  enough  in  your  vessel  as  well 
as  in  your  lamp  ?  ”  I  said. 

“  Ah,  you  are  one  of  the  doubting  !  ”  she  returned  kindly. 
“  Don’t  you  know  that  sweet  hymn  about  feeding  our  lamps 
from  the  olive-trees  of  Gethsemane  ?  The  idea  is  taken  from 
the  lamp  the  prophet  Zechariah  saw  in  his  vision,  into  which 
two  olive-branches,  through  two  golden  pipes,  emptied  th© 
golden  oil  out  of  themselves.  If  we  are  thus  one  with  the 
olive-tree,  the  oil  cannot  fail  us.  It  is  not  as  if  we  had  to  fill 
our  lamps  from  a  cruse  of  our  own.  This  is  the  cruse  that 
cannot  fail.” 

“  True,  true,”  I  said ;  “  but  ought  we  not  to  examine  our 
own  selves  whether  we  are  in  the  faith  ?  ” 

“  Let  those  examine  that  doubt,”  she  replied ;  and  I  could 
not  but  yield  in  my  heart  that  she  had  had  the  best  of  the 
argument. 

For  I  knew  that  the  confidence  in  Christ  which  prevents  us 
from  thinking  of  ourselves,  and  makes  us  eager  to  obey  his 
word,  leaving  all  the  care  of  our  feelings  to  him,  is  a  true  and 
healthy  faith.  Hence  I  could  not  answer  her,  although  I 
doubted  whether  her  peace  came  from  such  confidence — 
doubted  for  several  reasons ;  one,  that,  so  far  from  not  think¬ 
ing  of  herself,  she  seemed  full  of  herself ;  another,  that  she 
seamed  to  find  no  difficulty  with  herself  in  any  way — and  surely 
she  was  too  young  for  all  struggle  to  be  over !  I  perceived  no 


Mrs.  Cromwell  Comes . 


3 17 


reference  to  the  will  of  God  in  regard  of  anything  she  had  to 
do,  only  in  regard  of  what  she  had  to  suffer,  and  specially  in 
regard  of  that  smallest  of  matters — when  she  was  to  go.  Here 
I  checked  myself,  for  what  could  she  do  in  such  a  state  of 
health  ?  But  then  she  never  spoke  as  if  she  had  any  anxiety 
about  the  welfare  of  other  people.  That  however  might  be 
from  her  absolute  contentment  in  the  will  of  God.  But  why 
did  she  always  look  to  the  Saviour  through  a  mist  of  hymns, 
and  never  go  straight  back  to  the  genuine  old  good  news,  or 
to  the  mighty  thoughts  and  exhortations  with  which  the  first 
preachers  of  that  news  followed  them  up  and  unfolded  the 
grandeur  of  their  goodness  ?  After  all,  was  I  not  judging  her  ? 
On  the  other  hand,  ought  I  not  to  care  for  her  state  ?  Should 
I  not  be  inhuman,  that  is  unchristian,  if  I  did  not? 

In  the  end  I  saw  clearly  enough  that  except  it  was  revealed 
to  me  what  I  ought  to  say,  I  had  no  right  to  say  anything  ; 
and  that  to  be  uneasy  about  her,  was  to  distrust  him  whose  it 
was  to  teach  her,  and  who  would  perfect  that  which  he  had 
certainly  begun  in  her.  For  her  heart,  however  poor  and  faulty 
and  flimsy  its  faith  might  be,  was  yet  certainly  drawn  towards 
the  one  object  of  faith.  I  therefore  said  nothing  more  in  the 
direction  of  opening  her  eyes  to  what  I  considered  her  com 
dition  :  that  view  of  it  might  after  all  be  but  a  phantasm 
of  my  own  projection.  What  was  plainly  my  duty  was  to 
serve  her  as  one  of  those  the  least  of  whom  the  Saviour  sets 
forth  as  representing  himself.  I  would  do  it  to  her  as  unto 
him. 

My  children  were  out  the  greater  part  of  every  day,  and  Dora 
was  with  me,  so  that  I  had  more  leisure  than  I  had  had  for  a 
long  time.  I  therefore  set  myself  to  wait  upon  her  as  a  kind 
of  lady’s-maid  in  things  spiritual.  Her  own  maid,  understand¬ 
ing  her  ways,  was  sufficient  for  things  temporal.  I  resolved 
to  try  to  help  her  after  her  own  fashion  and  not  after  mine,  for, 
however  strange  the  nourishment  she  preferred  might  seem,  it 
must  at  least  be  of  the  kind  she  could  best  assimilate.  My 
care  should  be — to  give  her  her  gruel  as  good  as  I  might,  and 


3 1 S 


The  Vicar's  Daughter. 

her  beef-tea  strong,  with  chicken-broth  instead  of  barley-watet 
and  delusive  jelly.  But  much  opportunity  of  ministration  was 
not  afforded  me,  for  her  husband,  whose  business  in  life  she 
seemed  to  regard  as  the  care  of  her — for  which  in  truth  she 
was  gently  and  lovingly  grateful — and  who  not  merely  accepted 
her  view  of  the  matter  but,  I  was  pretty  sure,  had  had  a  large 
share  in  originating  it,  was  even  more  constant  in  his  attentions 
than  she  found  altogether  agreeable,  to  judge  by  the  way  in 
which  she  would  insist  on  his  going  out  for  a  second  walk, 
when  it  was  clear  that,  besides  his  desire  to  be  with  her,  he 
was  not  inclined  to  walk  any  more. 

I  could  set  myself  however,  as  I  have  indicated,  to  find  fitting 
pabulum  for  her — and  that  of  her  chosen  sort  This  was  pos¬ 
sible  for  me  in  virtue  of  my  father’s  collection  of  hymns  and 
the  aid  he  could  give  me.  I  therefore  sent  him  a  detailed  de¬ 
scription  of  what  seemed  to  me  her  condition,  and  what  I 
thought  I  might  do  for  her.  It  was  a  week  before  he  gave  me 
an  answer,  but  it  arrived  a  thorough  one — in  the  shape  of  a 
box  of  books,  each  bristling  with  paper  marks,  many  of  them 
inscribed  with  some  fact  concerning  or  criticism  upon  the  hymn 
indicated.  He  wrote  that  he  quite  agreed  with  my  notion  of 
the  right  mode  of  serving  her,  for  any  other  would  be  as  if  a 
besieging  party  were  to  batter  a  postern  by  means  of  boats  in¬ 
stead  of  walking  over  a  lowered  drawbridge  and  under  a  raised 
portcullis. 

Having  taken  a  survey  of  the  hymns  my  father  thus  pointed 
out  to  me,  and  arranged  them  according  to  their  degrees  of 
approximation  to  the  weakest  of  those  in  Mrs.  Cromwell’s 
collection,  I  judged  that  in  all  of  them  there  was  something 
she  must  appreciate,  although  the  main  drift  of  several  would 
be  entirely  beyond  her  apprehension.  Even  these,  however,  it 
would  be  well  to  try  upon  her. 

Accordingly,  the  next  time  she  asked  me  to  read  from  her 
collection,  I  made  the  request  that  she  would  listen  to  some 
which  I  believed  she  did  not  know,  but  would,  I  thought,  like. 
She  consented  with  eagerness,  was  astonished  to  find  she  knew 


Mrs.  Cromwell  Comes . 


319 

none  of  them,  expressed  much  approbation  of  some,  and  showed 
herself  delighted  with  others. 

That  she  must  have  had  some  literary  faculty  seems  evident 
from  the  genuine  pleasure  she  took  in  simple,  quaint,  some¬ 
times  even  odd  hymns  of  her  own  peculiar  kind.  But  the  very 
best  of  another  sort,  she  could  not  appreciate.  For  instance, 
the  following,  by  John  Mason,  in  my  father’s  opinion  one  of 
the  best  hymn-writers,  had  no  attraction  for  her : — 

Thou  wast,  O  God,  and  thou  wast  blest 
Before  the  world  begun  ; 

Of  thine  eternity  possest 
Before  time’s  glass  did  run. 

Thou  needest  none  thy  praise  to  sing, 

As  if  thy  joy  could  fade  : 

Couldst  thou  have  needed  anything, 

Thou  couldst  have  nothing  made. 

Great  and  good  God,  it  pleased  thee 
Thy  Godhead  to  declare  ; 

And  what  thy  goodness  did  decree, 

Thy  greatness  did  prepare  : 

Thou  spak’st,  and  heaven  and  earth  appeared 
And  answered  to  thy  call ; 

As  if  their  maker’s  voice  they  heard, 

Which  is  the  creature’s  All. 

Thou  spak’st  the  word,  most  mighty  Lord ; 

Thy  word  went  forth  with  speed  : 

Thy  will,  O  Lord,  it  was  thy  word. 

Thy  word  it  was  thy  deed. 

Thou  brought’st  forth  Adam  from  the  ground, 

And  Eve  out  of  his  side  : 

Thy  blessing  made  the  earth  abound 
With  these  two  multiplied. 

Those  three  great  leaves,  Heaven,  Sea,  and  Land, 

Thy  name  in  figures  show  ; 

Brutes  feel  the  bounty  of  thy  hand, 

But  I  my  maker  know. 


320 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter . 

Should  not  I  here  thy  servant  be, 

Whose  creatures  serve  me  here  ? 

My  Lord,  whom  should  I  fear  but  theo* 

Who  am  thy  creatures’  fear  ? 

To  whom,  Lord,  should  I  sing  but  thee, 

The  maker  of  my  tongue  ? 

Lo  !  other  lords  would  seize  on  me. 

But  I  to  thee  belong. 

As  waters  haste  unto  their  sea, 

And  earth  unto  its  earth, 

So  let  my  soul  return  to  thee, 

From  whom  it  had  its  birth. 

But  ah  !  I’m  fallen  in  the  night. 

And  cannot  come  to  thee, 

Yet  speak  the  word,  Let  ihere  be  Light : 

It  shall  enlighten  me  ; 

And  let  thy  word,  most  mighty  Lord, 

Thy  fallen  creature  raise  : 

Oh  make  me  o’er  again,  and  I 
Shall  sing  my  maker’s  praise. 

This  and  others,  I  say  she  could  not  relish  \  but  my  en¬ 
deavours  were  crowned  with  success  in  so  far  that  she  accepted 
better  specimens  of  the  sort  she  liked  than  any  she  had ;  and 
I  think  they  must  have  had  a  good  influence  upon  her. 

She  seemed  to  have  no  fear  of  death,  contemplating  the 
change  she  believed  at  hand  not  with  equanimity  merely,  but 
with  expectation.  She  even  wrote  hymns  about  it — sweet, 
pretty,  and  weak,  always  with  herself  and  the  love  of  her  Saviour 
for  her  in  the  foreground.  She  had  not  learned  that  the  love 
which  lays  hold  of  that  which  is  human  in  the  individual,  that 
is,  which  is  common  to  the  whole  race,  must  be  an  infinitely 
deeper,  tenderer,  and  more  precious  thing  to  the  individual 
than  any  affection  manifesting  itself  in  the  preference  of  one 
over  another. 

For  the  sake  of  revealing  her  modes  of  thought,  I  will  give 


Mrs.  Cromwell  Comes . 


321 


one  more  specimen  of  my  conversations  with  her,  ere  I  pass 
on.  It  took  place  the  evening  before  her  departure  for  her 
own  house.  Her  husband  had  gone  to  make  some  final  pre¬ 
parations,  of  which  there  had  been  many.  For  one  who  ex¬ 
pected  to  be  unclothed  that  she  might  be  clothed  upon,  she 
certainly  made  a  tolerable  to-do  about  the  garment  she  was  so 
soon  to  lay  aside ;  especially  seeing  she  often  spoke  of  it  as  an 
ill-fitting  garment — never  with  peevishness  or  complaint — only, 
as  it  seemed  to  me,  with  far  more  interest  than  it  was  worth. 
She  had  even,  as  afterwards  appeared,  given  her  husband  — 
good,  honest,  dog-like  man — full  instructions  as  to  the  cere¬ 
monial  of  its  interment.  Perhaps  I  should  have  been  consider¬ 
ably  less  bewildered  with  her  conduct  had  I  suspected  that  she 
was  not  half  so  near  death  as  she  chose  to  think,  and  that  she 
had  as  yet  suffered  little. 

That  evening,  the  stars  just  beginning  to  glimmer  through 
the  warm  flush  that  lingered  from  the  sunset,  we  sat  together 
in  the  drawing-room  looking  out  on  the  sea.  My  patient  ap¬ 
pearing,  from  the  light  in  her  eyes,  about  to  go  off  into  one  of 
her  ecstatic  moods,  I  hastened  to  forestall  it,  if  I  might,  with 
whatever  came  uppermost;  for  I  felt  my  inability  to  sympathize 
with  her  in  these,  more  of  a  pain  than  my  reader  will  perhaps 
readily  imagine. 

“  It  seems  like  turning  you  out  to  let  you  go  to  morrow, 
Mrs.  Cromwell,”  I  said  ;  “  but  you  see  our  three  months  are 
up  two  days  after,  and  I  cannot  help  it.” 

“  You  have  been  very  kind,”  she  said,  half  abstractedly. 

“  And  you  are  really  much  better.  Who  would  have  thought 
three  weeks  ago  to  see  you  so  well  to-day?  ” 

“  Ah  !  you  congratulate  me,  do  you  ?  ”  she  rejoined,  turning 
her  big  eyes  full  upon  me;  “ — congratulate  me  that  I  am 
doomed  to  be  still  a  captive  in  the  prison  of  this  vile  body? 
Is  it  kind  ?  Is  it  well  ?  ” 

“At  least  you  must  remember — if  you  are  doomed — who 
dooms  you.” 

“  ‘  Oh  that  I  had  the  wrings  of  a  dove  !  *  ”  she  cried,  avoiding 

Y 


322 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter . 

my  remark,  of  which  I  doubt  if  she  saw  the  drift.  u  Think, 
dear  Mrs.  Percivale — the  society  of  saints  and  angels  ! — all 
brightness,  and  harmony,  and  peace  !  Is  it  not  worth  forsaking 
this  world  to  inherit  a  kingdom  like  that?  Wouldn’t  you  like 
to  go  ?  Don’t  you  wish  to  fly  away  and  be  at  rest  ?” 

She  spoke  as  if  expostulating  and  reasoning  with  one  she 
would  persuade  to  some  kind  of  holy  emigration. 

“  Not  until  I  am  sent  for,”  I  answered. 

“ I am  sent  for,”  she  returned.  “‘The  wave  may  be  cold, 
and  the  tide  may  be  strong,  But,  hark,  on  the  shore,  the  angels’ 
glad  song  !  ’  Do  you  know  that  sweet  hymn,  Mrs.  Percivale  ? 
— 'There  I  shall  be  able  to  love  him  aright,  to  serve  him 
aright  I 

‘  Here  all  my  labour  is  so  poor  ! 

Here  all  my  love  so  faint ! 

But  when  I  reach  the  heavenly  door, 

I  cease  the  weary  plaint.’  ” 

I  couldn’t  help  wishing  she  would  cease  it  a  little  sooner. 

“  But  suppose,”  I  ventured  to  say,  “  it  were  the  will  of  God 
that  you  should  live  many  years  yet.” 

“  That  cannot  be.  And  why  should  you  wish  it  for  me  ? 
Is  it  not  better  to  depart  and  be  with  him  ?  What  pleasure 
could  it  be  to  a  weak  worn  creature  like  me  to  go  on  living  in 
this  isle  of  banishment  ?  ” 

“  But  suppose  you  were  to  recover  your  health :  would  it 
not  be  delightful  to  do  something  for  his  sake  ?  If  you  would 
think  of  how  much  there  is  to  be  done  in  the  world,  perhaps 
you  would  wish  less  to  die  and  leave  it.” 

“  Do  not  tempt  me,”  she  returned  reproachfully. 

And  then  she  quoted  a  passage  the  application  of  which  to 
her  own  case  appeared  to  me  so  irreverent,  that  I  confess  I 
felt  like  Abraham  with  the  idolater — so  far  at  least  as  to  wish  her 
out  of  the  house,  for  I  could  bear  with  her,  I  thought,  no  longer. 

She  did  leave  it  the  next  day,  and  I  breathed  more  freely 
tl\an  since  she  had  entered  it. 


Mrs.  Cromwell  Goes. 


323 


My  husband  came  down  to  fetch  me  the  following  day,  and 
a  walk  with  him  along  the  cliffs  in  the  gathering  twilight,  during 
which  I  recounted  the  affectations  of  my  late  visitor,  completely 
wiped  the  cobwebs  from  my  mental  windows,  and  enabled  me 
to  come  to  the  conclusion  that  Mrs.  Cromwell  was  but  a  spoilt 
child,  who  would,  somehow  or  other,  be  brought  to  her  senses 
before  all  was  over.  I  was  ashamed  of  my  impatience  with 
her,  and  believed  if  I  could  have  learned  her  history,  of  which 
she  had  told  me  nothing,  it  would  have  explained  the  rare 
phenomenon  of  one  apparently  able  to  look  death  in  the  face 
with  so  little  of  the  really  spiritual  to  support  her,  for  she  seemed 
to  me  to  know  Christ  only  after  the  flesh.  But  had  she  indeed 
ever  looked  death  in  the  face  ? 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

MRS.  CROMWELL  GOES. 

I  heard  nothing  more  of  her  for  about  a  year.  A  note  or  two 
passed  between  us,  and  then  all  communication  ceased.  This, 
I  am  happy  to  think,  was  not  immediately  my  fault ;  not  that 
it  mattered  much,  for  we  were  not  then  fitted  for  much  com¬ 
munion  : — we  had  too  little  in  common  to  commune. 

“  Did  you  not  both  believe  in  one  Lord  ?  ”  I  fancy  a  reader 
objecting.  “  How  then  can  you  say  you  had  too  little  in 
common  to  be  able  to  commune  ?  ” 

I  said  the  same  to  myself,  and  tried  the  question  in  many 
ways.  The  fact  remained  that  we  could  not  commune — that 
is,  with  any  heartiness ;  and,  although  I  may  have  done  her 
wrong,  it  was,  I  thought,  to  be  accounted  for  something  in 
this  way.  The  Saviour  of  whom  she  spoke  so  often,  and 
evidently  thought  so  much,  was  in  a  great  measure  a  being 
of  her  fancy — so  much  so  that  she  manifested  no  desire  to 

Y  2 


324 


The  Vicar's  Daughter . 

find  out  what  the  Christ  was  who  had  spent  three  and  thirty 
years  in  making  a  revelation  of  himself  to  the  world.  The 
knowledge  she  had  about  him  was  not  even  at  second  hand 
but  at  many  removes.  She  did  not  study  his  words  or  his 
actions  to  learn  his  thoughts  or  his  meanings ;  but  lived  in  a 
kind  of  dreamland  of  her  own  which  could  be  interesting  only 
to  the  dreamer.  Now  if  we  are  to  come  to  God  through 
Christ,  it  must  surely  be  by  knowing  Christ ;  it  must  be  through 
the  knowledge  of  Christ  that  the  Spirit  of  the  Father  mainly 
works  in  the  members  of  his  body ;  and  it  seemed  to  me  she 
did  not  take  the  trouble  to  “  know  him  and  the  power  of  his 
resurrection.”  Therefore  we  had  scarcely  enough  of  common 
ground,  as  I  say,  to  meet  upon.  I  could  not  help  contrast¬ 
ing  her  religion  with  that  of  Marion  Clare. 

At  length  I  had  a  note  from  her,  begging  me  to  go  and 
see  her  at  her  house  at  Richmond,  and  apologizing  for  her 
not  coming  to  me,  on  the  score  of  her  health.  I  felt  it  my 
duty  to  go,  but  sadly  grudged  the  loss  of  time  it  seemed,  for 
I  expected  neither  pleasure  nor  . profit  from  the  visit.  Perci- 
vale  went  with  me,  and  left  me  at  the  door  to  have  a  row  on 
the  river,  and  call  for  me  at  a  certain  hour. 

The  house  and  grounds  were  luxurious  and  lovely  both — 
two  often  dissociated  qualities.  She  could  have  nothing  to 
desire  of  this  world’s  gifts,  I  thought.  But  the  moment  she 
entered  the  room  into  which  I  had  been  shown,  I  was  shocked 
at  the  change  I  saw  in  her.  Almost  to  my  horror,  she  was 
in  a  widow’s  cap ;  and  disease  and  coming  death  were  plain 
on  every  feature.  Such  was  the  contrast,  that  the  face  in  my 
memory  appeared  that  of  health. 

“  My  dear  Mrs.  Cromwell  !  ”  I  gasped  out. 

“You  see,”  she  said,  and  sitting  down  on  a  straight-backed 
chair,  looked  at  me  with  lustreless  eyes. 

Death  had  been  hovering  about  her  windows  before,  but 
had  entered  at  last— not  to  take  the  sickly  young  woman  long¬ 
ing  to  die,  but  the  hale  man,  who  would  have  clung  to  the  last 
edge  of  life. 


Mrs.  Cromwell  Goes.  325 

“  He  is  taken,  and  I  am  left,”  she  said  abruptly,  after  a  long 
pause. 

Her  drawl  had  vanished:  pain  and  grief  had  made  her 
simple.  “  Then,”  I  thought  with  myself,  “  she  did  love  him  !  ” 
But  I  could  say  nothing.  She  took  my  silence  for  the  sym¬ 
pathy  it  was,  and  smiled  a  heartrending  smile— so  different 
from  that  little  sad  smile  she  used  to  have  ! — really  pathetic 
now,  and  with  hardly  a  glimmer  in  it  of  the  old  self-pity.  I 
rose,  put  my  arms  about  her,  and  kissed  her  on  the  forehead  ; 
she  laid  her  head  on  my  shoulder,  and  wept. 

“  Whom  the  Lord  loveth  he  chasteneth,”  I  faltered  out, 
for  her  sorrow  filled  me  with  a  respect  that  was  new. 

“  Yes,”  she  returned,  as  gently  as  hopelessly;  “and  whom 
he  does  not  love  as  well.” 

“You  have  no  ground  for  saying  so,”  I  answered.  “The 
apostle  does  not.” 

“  My  lamp  is  gone  out,”  she  said,  “  — gone  out  in  darkness, 
utter  darkness.  You  warned  me,  and  I  did  not  heed  the 
warning.  I  thought  I  knew  better,  but  I  was  full  of  self-con¬ 
ceit  And  now  I  am  wandering  where  there  is  no  way  and  no 
light.  My  iniquities  have  found  me  out.” 

I  did  not  say  what  I  thought  I  saw  plain  enough — that 
her  lamp  was  just  beginning  to  burn.  Neither  did  I  try  to 
persuade  her  that  her  iniquities  were  small. 

“  But  the  bridegroom,”  I  said,  “  is  not  yet  come.  There  is 
time  to  go  and  get  some  oil.” 

“  Where  am  I  to  get  it  ?  ”  she  returned,  in  a  tone  of  despair. 

“  From  the  bridegroom  himself,”  I  said. 

“  No,”  she  answered.  “  I  have  talked  and  talked  and 
talked,  and  you  know  he  says  he  abhors  talkers.  I  am  one 
of  those  to  whom  he  will  say,  ‘  I  know  you  not.’  ” 

“And  you  will  answer  him  that  you  have  eaten  and  drunk 
in  his  presence,  and  cast  out  devils,  and — ?” 

“  No,  no ;  I  will  say  he  is  right  — that  it  is  all  my  own  fault ; 
that  I  thought  I  was  something  when  I  was  nothing,  but  lhat 
I  know  better  now.” 


326  The  Vicar's  Daughter . 

A  dreadful  fit  of  coughing  interrupted  her.  As  soon  as  it 
was  over,  I  said, — 

“  And  what  will  the  Lord  say  to  you,  do  you  think,  when 
you  have  said  so  to  him  ?  ” 

“  Depart  from  me,”  she  answered  in  a  hollow,  forced 
voice. 

“  No,”  I  returned.  “  He  will  say,  ‘I  know  you  well.  You 
have  told  me  the  truth.  Come  in.’” 

“ Do  you  think  so?”  she  cried.  “You  never  used  to  think 
well  of  me.” 

“  Those  who  were  turned  away,”  I  said,  avoiding  her  last 
words,  “  were  trying  to  make  themselves  out  better  than  they 
were ;  they  trusted,  not  in  the  love  of  Christ,  but  in  what 
they  thought  their  worth  and  social  standing.  Perhaps  if  their 
deeds  had  been  as  good  as  they  thought  them,  they  would 
have  known  better  than  to  trust  in  them.  If  they  had  told 
him  the  truth  ;  if  they  had  said,  ‘  Lord,  we  are  workers  of 
iniquity ;  Lord,  we  used  to  be  hypocrites,  but  we  speak  the 
truth  now :  forgive  us  ’ — do  you  think  he  would  then  have 
turned  them  away  ?  No,  surely.  If  your  lamp  has  gone  out, 
make  haste  and  tell  him  how  careless  you  have  been  ;  tell  him 
all,  and  pray  him  for  oil  and  light — and  see  whether  your 
lamp  will  not  straightway  glimmer — glimmer  first  and  then 
glow.” 

“  Ah,  Mrs.  Percivale  !  ”  she  cried  ;  “  I  would  do  something 
for  his  sake  now  if  I  might,  but  I  cannot.  If  I  had  but  re¬ 
sisted  the  disease  in  me  for  the  sake  of  serving  him,  I  might 
have  been  able  now  ;  but  my  chance  is  over  ;  I  cannot  now  ; 
I  have  too  much  pain.  And  death  looks  such  a  different 
thing  now  !  I  used  to  think  of  it  only  as  a  kind  of  going  to 
sleep,  easy  though  sad — sad,  I  mean,  in  the  eyes  of  mourning 
friends.  But,  alas  !  I  nave  no  friends  now  that  my  husband 
is  gone.  I  never  dreamed  of  him  going  first.  He  loved  me — 
indeed  he  did,  though  you  will  hardly  believe  it,  but  I  always 
took  it  as  a  matter  of  course.  I  never  saw  how  beautiful  and 
unselfish  he  was  till  he  was  gone.  I  have  been  selfish  and 


s 


Mrs.  Cromwell  Goes . 


327 


stupid  and  dull,  and  my  sins  have  found  me  out.  A  great 
darkness  has  fallen  upon  me,  and,  although  weary  of  life,  in¬ 
stead  of  longing  for  death,  I  shrink  from  it  with  horror.  My 
cough  will  not  let  me  sleep  ;  there  is  nothing  but  weariness  in 
my  body  and  despair  in  my  heart.  Oh  how  black  and  dreary 
the  nights  are  !  I  think  of  the  time  in  your  house  as  of  an 
earthly  paradise.  But  where  is  the  heavenly  paradise  I  used 
to  dream  of  then  ?  ” 

“  Would  it  content  you,”  I  asked,  “  to  be  able  to  dream  of 
it  again  ?  ” 

“  No ;  no.  I  want  something  very  different  now.  Those 
„  fancies  look  so  uninteresting  and  stupid  now !  All  I  want 
now  is  to  hear  God  say,  ‘  I  forgive  you.’  And  my  husband 
— I  must  have  troubled  him  sorely.  You  don’t  know  how 
good  he  was,  Mrs.  Percivale.  He  made  no  pretences  like 
silly  me. — Do  you  know,”  she  went  on,  lowering  her  voice, 
and  speaking  with  something  like  horror  in  its  tone — “  Do  you 
know —  I  cannot  bear  hymns  !  ” 

As  she  said  it,  she  looked  up  in  my  face  half-terrified  with 
the  anticipation  of  the  horror  she  expected  to  see  manifested 
there.  I  could  not  help  smiling.  The  case  was  not  one  for 
argument  of  any  kind  :  I  thought  for  a  moment,  then  merely 
repeated  the  verse  : — 

tl  When  the  law  threatens  endless  death, 

Upon  the  awful  hill, 

Straightway  from  her  consuming  breath. 

My  soul  goeth  higher  still ; 

Goeth  to  Jesus,  wounded,  slain, 

And  maketh  him  her  home, 

Whence  she  will  not  go  out  again, 

And  where  death  cannot  come.” 

“  Ah  !  that  is  good,”  she  said,  “ — if  only  I  could  get  to 
him  !  But  I  cannot  get  to  him.  He  is  so  far  off!  He  seems 
to  be — nowhere.” 

I  think  she  was  going  to  say  nobody ,  but  changed  the  word. 


328  The  Vicars  Daughter. 

“  If  you  felt  for  a  moment  how  helpless  and  wretched  I 
feel,  especially  in  the  early  morning,”  she  went  on  ;  “  how 
there  seems  nothing  to  look  for,  and  no  help  to  be  had  ;  you 
would  pity  rather  than  blame  me,  though  I  know  I  deserve 
blame.  I  feel  as  if  all  the  heart  and  soul  and  strength  and 
mind  with  which  we  are  told  to  love  God,  had  gone  out  of 
me — or  rather  as  if  I  had  never  had  any.  I  doubt  if  I  ever 
had.  I  tried  very  hard  for  a  long  time  to  get  a  sight  of 
Jesus,  to  feel  myself  in  his  presence  \  but  it  was  of  no  use,  and 
I  have  quite  given  it  up  now.” 

1  made  her  lie  on  the  sofa,  and  sat  down  beside  her. 

“  Do  you  think,”  I  said,  “  that  any  one,  before  he  came,  . 
could  have  imagined  such  a  visitor  to  the  world  as  Jesus 
Christ?” 

“  I  suppose  not,”  she  answered  listlessly. 

“  Then  no  more  can  you  come  near  him  now,  by  trying  to 
imagine  him.  You  cannot  represent  to  yourself  the  reality, 
the  being  who  can  comfort  you.  In  other  words,  you  cannot 
take  him  into  your  heart.  He  only  knows  himself,  and  he  only 
can  reveal  himself  to  you.  And  not  until  he  does  so,  can  you 
find  any  certainty  or  any  peace.” 

“  But  he  doesn’t — he  won’t  reveal  himself  to  me.” 

“  Suppose  you  had  forgotten  what  some  friend  of  your  child¬ 
hood  was  like — say,  if  it  were  possible — your  own  mother  ; 
suppose  you  could  not  recall  a  feature  of  her  face,  or  the 
colour  of  her  eyes ;  and  suppose  that,  while  you  were  very 
miserable  about  it,  you  remembered  all  at  once  that  you  had  a 
portrait  of  her  in  an  old  desk  you  had  not  opened  for  years ; — 
what  would  you  do  ?  ” 

“  Go  and  get  it,”  she  answered  like  a  child  at  the  Sunday- 
school. 

“Then  why  shouldn’t  you  do  so  now?  You  have  such  a 
portrait  of  Jesus — far  truer  and  more  complete  than  any  other 
kind  of  portrait  can  be — the  portrait  his  own  deeds  and  words 
give  us  of  him.” 

“  I  see  what  you  mean  ;  but  that  is  all  about  long-ago, 


Mrs.  Cromwell  Goes .  329 

and  I  want  him  now.  That  is  in  a  book,  and  I  want  him  in 
my  heart.” 

“  How  are  you  to  get  him  into  your  heart  ?  How  could  you 
have  him  there  except  by  knowing  him?  But  perhaps  you 
think  you  do  know  him  ?  ” 

“ 1  am  certain  I  do  not  know  him— at  least  as  I  want  to 
know  him,”  she  said. 

“No  doubt,”  I  went  on,  “he  can  speak  to  your  heart  with¬ 
out  the  record,  and,  I  think,  is  speaking  to  you  now,  in  this 
very  want  of  him  you  feel.  But  how  could  he  show  himself  to 
you  otherwise  than  by  helping  you  to  understand  the  revela¬ 
tion  of  himself  which  it  cost  him  such  labour  to  afford?  If  the 
story  were  millions  of  years  old,  so  long  as  it  was  true,  it  would 
be  all  the  same  as  if  it  had  been  ended  only  yesterday ;  for, 
being  what  he  represented  himself,  he  never  can  change.  To 
know  what  he  was  then,  is  to  know  what  he  is  now.” 

“  But  if  I  knew  him  so,  that  wouldn’t  be  to  have  him  with 
me.” 

“  No ;  but  in  that  knowledge  he  might  come  to  you.  It  is  by 
the  door  of  that  knowledge  that  his  spirit,  which  is  himself, 
comes  into  the  soul.  You  would  at  least  be  more  able  to 
pray  to  him  ;  you  would  know  what  kind  of  a  being  you  had  to 
cry  to.  You  would  thus  come  nearer  to  him  ;  and  no  one 
ever  drew  nigh  to  him  to  whom  he  did  not  also  draw  nigh.  If 
you  would  but  read  the  story  as  if  you  had  never  read  it  before 
—  as  if  you  were  reading  the  history  of  a  man  you  heard  of  for 
the  first  time — ” 

“Surely  you’re  not  a  Unitarian,  Mrs.  Percivale!”  she  said, 
half  lifting  her  head  and  looking  at  me  with  a  dim  terror  in  her 
pale  eyes. 

“  God  forbid  !  ”  I  answered.  “  But  I  would  that  many  who 
think  they  know  better  believed  in  him  half  as  much  as  many 
Unitarians  do.  It  is  only  by  understanding  and  believing  in 
that  humanity  of  his,  which  in  such  pain  and  labour  manifested 
his  Godhead,  that  we  can  come  to  know  it — know  that  God¬ 
head,  I  mean,  in  virtue  of  which  alone  he  was  a  true  and  per- 


330 


The  Vicars  Daughter, 

feet  man — that  Godhead  which  alone  can  satisfy  with  peace 
and  hope  the  poorest  human  soul— for  it  also  is  the  offspring 
of  God.” 

I  ceased,  and  for  some  moments  she  sat  silent.  Then  she 
said  feebly, — 

“There’s  a  Bible  somewhere  in  the  room.” 

I  found  it,  and  read  the  story  of  the  woman  who  came  behind 
him  in  terror,  and  touched  the  hem  of  his  garment.  I  could 
hardly  read  it  for  the  emotion  it  caused  in  myself;  and  when 
I  ceased  I  saw  her  weeping  silently. 

A  servant  entered  with  the  message  that  Mr.  Percivale  had 
called  for  me. 

“  I  cannot  see  him  to-day,”  she  sobbed. 

“  Of  course  not,”  I  replied.  “  I  must  leave  you  now,  but 
I  will  come  again — come  often  if  you  like.” 

“You  are  as  kind  as  ever!”  she  returned,  with  a  fresh 
burst  of  tears.  “  Will  you  come  and  be  with  me  when — - 
when —  ?  ” 

She  could  not  finish  for  sobs. 

“  I  will,”  I  said,  knowing  well  what  she  meant. 

This  is  how  I  imagined  the  change  to  have  come  about : 
what  had  seemed  her  faith  had  been  in  a  great  measure  but  her 
hope  and  imagination  occupying  themselves  with  the  forms  of 
the  religion  towards  which  all  that  was  highest  in  her  nature 
dimly  urged.  The  two  characteristics  of  amiability  and 
selfishness,  not  unfrequently  combined,  rendered  it  easy  for  her 
to  deceive  herself,  or  rather  conspired  to  prevent  her  from  un¬ 
deceiving  herself  as  to  the  quality  and  worth  of  her  religion. 
For  if  she  had  been  other  than  amiable,  the  misery  following 
the  outbreaks  of  temper  which  would  have  been  of  certain 
occurrence  in  the  state  of  her  health,  would  have  made  her 
aware  in  some  degree  of  her  moral  condition ;  and  if  her 
thoughts  had  not  been  centred  upon  herself,  she  would,  in  her 
care  for  others,  have  learned  her  own  helplessness;  and  the 
devotion  of  her  good  husband,  not  then  accepted  merely  as  a 
natural  homage  to  her  worth,  would  have  shown  itself  as  a  love 


Mrs.  Cromwell  Goes . 


331 


beyond  her  deserts,  and  would  have  roused  the  longing  to  be 
worthy  of  it.  She  saw  now  that  he  must  have  imagined  her 
far  better  than  she  was ;  but  she  had  not  meant  to  deceive 
him  :  she  had  but  followed  the  impulses  of  a  bright,  shallow 
nature. 

But  that  last  epithet  bids  me  pause  and  remember  that  my 
father  has  taught  me,  and  that  I  have  found  the  lesson  true, 
that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  a  shallow  nature ;  every  nature 
is  infinitely  deep,  for  the  works  of  God  are  everlasting.  Also 
there  is  no  nature  that  is  not  shallow  to  what  it  must  become. 
I  suspect  every  nature  must  have  the  subsoil  ploughing  of 
sorrow,  before  it  can  recognize  either  its  present  poverty  or  its 
possible  wealth. 

When  her  husband  died,  suddenly,  of  apoplexy,  she  was 
stunned  for  a  time,  gradually  awaking  to  a  miserable  sense  of 
unprotected  loneliness — so  much  the  more  painful  for  her 
weakly  condition,  and  the  over-care  to  which  she  had  been 
accustomed.  She  was  an  only  child,  and  had  become  an 
orphan  within  a  year  or  two  after  her  early  marriage.  Left 
thus  without  shelter,  like  a  delicate  plant  whose  house  of  glass 
has  been  shattered,  she  speedily  recognized  her  true  con¬ 
dition.  With  no  one  to  heed  her  whims,  and  no  one  capable 
of  sympathizing  with  the  genuine  misery  which  supervened, 
her  disease  gathered  strength  rapidly,  her  lamp  went  out,  and 
she  saw  no  light  beyond,  for  the  smoke  of  that  lamp  had 
dimmed  the  windows  at  which  the  stars  would  have  looked  in. 
When  life  became  dreary,  her  fancies,  despoiled  of  the  halo 
they  had  cast  on  the  fogs  of  selfish  comfort,  ceased  to  interest 
her ;  and  the  future  grew  a  vague  darkness,  an  uncertainty 
teeming  with  questions  to  which  she  had  no  answer.  Hence¬ 
forth  she  was  conscious  of  life  only  as  a  weakness,  as  the  want 
of  a  deeper  life  to  hold  it  up.  Existence  had  become  a  during 
faint,  and  self  hateful.  She  saw  that  she  was  poor  and  mise¬ 
rable  and  blind  and  naked ;  that  she  had  never  had  faith  fit 
to  support  her. 

But  out  of  this  darkness  dawned  at  least  a  twilight — so 


332 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter . 

gradual,  so  slow,  that  1  cannot  tell  when  or  how  the  darkness 
began  to  melt.  She  became  aware  of  a  deeper  and  simpler 
need  than  hitherto  she  had  known — the  need  of  life  in  herself 
— the  life  of  the  Son  of  God.  I  went  to  see  her  often.  At  the 
time  when  I  began  this  history,  I  was  going  every  other  day — • 
sometimes  oftener,  for  her  end  seemed  to  be  drawing  nigh. 
Her  weakness  had  greatly  increased ;  she  could  but  just  walk 
across  the  room,  and  was  constantly  restless.  She  had  no 
great  continuous  pain,  but  oft-returning  sharp  fits  of  it.  She 
looked  genuinely  sad,  and  her  spirits  never  recovered  them¬ 
selves.  She  seldom  looked  out  of  the  window;  the  daylight 
seemed  to  distress  her ;  flowers  were  the  only  links  between 
her  and  the  outer  world — wild  ones,  for  the  scent  of  greenhouse- 
flowers,  and  even  that  of  most  garden  ones,  she  could  not  bear. 
She  had  been  very  fond  of  music,  but  could  no  longer  endure 
her  piano  :  every  note  seemed  struck  on  a  nerve.  But  she  was 
generally  quiet  in  her  mind,  and  often  peaceful.  The  more 
her  body  decayed  about  her,  the  more  her  spirit  seemed  to 
come  alive.  It  was  the  calm  of  a  grey  evening,  not  so  lovely 
as  a  golden  sunset  or  a  silvery  moonlight,  but  more  sweet  than 
either.  She  talked  little  of  her  feelings,  but  evidently  longed 
after  the  words  of  our  Lord.  As  she  listened  to  some  of  them, 
I  could  see  the  eyes  which  had  now  grown  dim  with  suffering, 
gleam  with  the  light  of  holy  longing  and  humble  adoration. 

For  some  time  she  often  referred  to  her  coming  departure, 
and  confessed  that  she  feared  death, — not  so  much  what 
might  be  on  the  other  side,  as  the  dark  way  itself— the  struggle, 
the  torture,  the  fainting ;  but  by  degrees  her  allusions  to  it  be¬ 
came  rarer,  and  at  length  ceased  almost  entirely.  Once  I  said 
to  her, — 

“Are  you  afraid  of  death  still,  Eleanor  ?” 

“No — not  much,”  she  replied,  after  a  brief  pause.  “He 
may  do  with  me  whatever  he  likes.” 

Knowing  so  well  what  Marion  could  do  to  comfort  and 
support,  and  therefore  desirous  of  bringing  them  together,  I 
took  her  one  day  with  me.  But  certain  that  the  thought  of 


Mrs.  Cromwell  Goes . 


333 


seeing  a  stranger  would  render  my  poor  Eleanor  uneasy,  and 
that  what  discomposure  a  sudden  introduction  might  cause, 
would  speedily  vanish  in  Marion’s  presence,  I  did  not  tell  her 
what  I  was  going  to  do.  Nor  in  this  did  I  mistake.  Before 
we  left,  it  was  plain  that  Marion  had  a  far  more  soothing  in¬ 
fluence  upon  her  than  I  had  myself.  She  looked  eagerly  for 
her  next  visit,  and  my  mind  was  now  more  at  peace  concerning 
her. 

One  evening,  after  listening  to  some  stories  from  Marion 
about  her  friends,  Mrs.  Cromwell  said  : 

“  Ah,  Miss  Clare — to  think  I  might  have  done  something  for 
him  by  doing  it  for  them  !  Alas  !  I  have  led  a  useless  life,  and 
am  dying  out  of  this  world  without  having  borne  any  fruit ! 
Ah  me  !  me  !  ” 

“  You  are  doing  a  good  deal  for  him  now,”  said  Marion, 
“  —  and  hard  work  too!”  she  added,  “harder  far  than 
mine.” 

“  I  am  only  dying,”  she  returned — so  sadly  ! 

“  You  are  enduring  chastisement,”  said  Marion.  “  The 
Lord  gives  one  one  thing  to  do  and  another  another.  We 
have  no  right  to  wish  for  other  work  than  he  gives  us.  It  is 
rebellious  and  unchildlike,  whatever  it  may  seem.  Neither 
have  we  any  right  to  wish  to  be  better  in  our  way ;  we  must 
wish  to  be  better  in  his l' 

“  But  I  should  like  to  do  something  for  him  ;  bearing  is  only 
for  myself.  Surely,  I  may  wish  that  ?” 

“No,  you  may  not.  Bearing  is  not  only  for  yourself.  You 
are  quite  wrong  in  thinking  you  do  nothing  for  him  in  en¬ 
during,”  returned  Marion,  with  that  abrupt  decision  of  hers 
which  seemed  to  some  like  rudeness.  “  What  is  the  will  of 
God?  Is  it  not  your  sanctification?  And  why  did  he  make 
the  captain  of  our  salvation  perfect  through  suffering?  Was  it 
not  that  he  might,  in  like  manner,  bring  many  sons  into  glory  ? 
Then  if  you  are  enduring,  you  are  working  with  God — for  the 
perfection  through  suffering  of  one  more  ;  you  are  working  for 
God  in  yourself,  that  the  will  of  God  may  be  done  in  you  ; 


334 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter . 

that  he  may  have  his  very  own  way  with  you.  It  is  the  only 
work  he  requires  of  you  now  :  do  it  not  only  willingly  then, 
but  contentedly.  To  make  people  good  is  all  his  labour  :  be 
good,  and  you  are  a  fellow-worker  with  God — in  the  highest 
region  of  labour.  He  does  not  want  you  for  other  people — 
yet” 

At  the  emphasis  Marion  laid  on  the  last  word,  Mrs.  Crom¬ 
well  glanced  sharply  up.  A  light  broke  over  her  face  :  she  had 
understood,  and  with  a  smile  was  silent. 

One  evening,  when  we  were  both  with  her,  it  had  grown  very 
sultry  and  breathless. 

“Isn’t  it  very  close,  dear  Mrs.  Percivale?”  she  said. 

I  rose  to  get  a  fan,  and  Marion  leaving  the  window  as  if 
moved  by  a  sudden  resolve,  went  and  opened  the  piano. 
Mrs.  Cromwell  made  a  hasty  motion,  as  if  she  must  prevent 
her.  But,  such  was  my  faith  in  my  friend’s  soul  as  well  as 
heart,  in  her  divine  taste  as  well  as  her  human  faculty,  that  I 
ventured  to  lay  my  hand  on  Mrs.  Cromwell’s.  It  was  enough 
for  sweetness  like  hers ;  she  yielded  instantly,  and  lay  still, 
evidently  nerving  herself  to  suffer.  But  the  first  movement 
stole  so  “  soft  and  soul-like  ”  on  her  ear,  trembling  as  it  were 
on  the  border-land  between  sound  and  silence,  that  she  missed 
the  pain  she  expected,  ^and  found  only  the  pleasure  she 
looked  not  for.  Marion’s  hands  made  the  instrument  sigh  and 
sing,  not  merely  as  with  a  human  voice,  but  as  with  a  human 
soul.  Her  own  voice  next  evolved  itself  from  the  dim  uncer¬ 
tainty,  in  sweet  proportions  and  delicate  modulations,  stealing 
its  way  into  the  heart,  to  set  first  one  chord,  then  another, 
vibrating,  until  the  whole  soul  was  filled  with  responses.  If  I 
add  that  her  articulation  was  as  nearly  perfect  as  the  act  of 
singing  will  permit,  my  reader  may  well  believe  that  a  song  of 
hers  would  do  what  a  song  might. 

Where  she  got  the  song  she  then  sung,  she  always  avoids 
telling  me.  I  had  told  her  all  I  knew  and  understood  con¬ 
cerning  Mrs.  Cromwell — and  have  my  suspicions.  This  is  the 


Mrs.  Cromwell  Goes. 


335 


I  fancy  I  hear  a  whisper 
As  of  leaves  in  a  gentle"  air  : 

Is  it  wrong,  I  wonder,  to  fancy 
It  may  be  the  tree  up  there— 

The  tree  that  heals  the  nations, 

Growing  amidst  the  street, 

And  dropping,  for  who  will  gather, 

Its  apples  at  their  feet. 

I  fancy  I  hear  a  rushing 
As  of  waters  down  a  slope  : 

Is  it  wrong,  I  wonder,  to  fancy 
It  may  be  the  river  of  hope — 

The  river  of  crystal  waters 

That  flows  from  the  very  throne. 

And  runs  through  the  street  of  the  city 
With  a  softly  jubilant  tone. 

I  fancy  a  twilight  round  me, 

And  a  wandering  of  the  breeze, 

With  a  hush  in  that  high  city, 

And  a  going  in  the  trees. 

But  I  know  there  will  be  no  night  there-* 
No  coming  and  going  day  ; 

For  the  holy  face  of  the  Father 
Will  be  perfect  light  alway. 

I  could  do  without  the  darkness, 

And  better  without  the  sun  ; 

But  oh,  I  should  like  a  twilight 
After  the  day  was  done  ! 

Would  he  lay  his  hand  on  his  forehead, 
On  his  hair  as  white  as  wool, 

And  shine  one  hour  through  his  fingers, 
Till  the  shadow  had  made  me  cool? 

But  the  thought  is  very  foolish  : 

If  that  face  I  did  but  see, 

All  else  would  br  all  forgotten— 

River  and  twilight  and  tree  ; 


33<5 


The  Vicar's  Daughter . 

I  should  seek,  I  should  care  for  nothing, 

Beholding  his  countenance  ; 

And  fear  only  to  lose  one  glimmer 
By  one  single  sidevvay  glance. 

*Tis  again  but  a  foolish  fancy 
To  picture  the  countenance  so 
Which  is  shining  in  all  our  spirits, 

Making  them  white  as  snow. 

Come  to  me,  shine  in  me,  master, 

And  I  care  not  for  river  or  tree ; 

Care  for  no  sorrow  or  crying 
If  only  thou  shine  in  me. 

I  would  lie  on  my  bed  for  ages, 

Looking  out  on  the  dusty  street, 

Where  whisper  nor  leaves  nor  waters, 

Nor  anything  cool  and  sweet — 

At  my  heart  this  ghastly  fainting, 

And  this  burning  in  my  blood, 

If  only  I  knew  thou  wast  with  me — 

Wast  with  me  and  making  me  good. 

When  she  rose  from  the  piano,  Mrs.  Cromwell  stretched  out 
her  hand  for  hers,  and  held  it  some  time,  unable  to  speak. 
Then  she  said, — 

“  That  has  done  me  good,  I  hope.  I  will  try  to  be  more 
patient,  for  I  think  he  is  teaching  me.” 

She  died  at  length  in  my  arms.  I  cannot  linger  over  that 
last  time.  She  suffered  a  good  deal,  but  dying  people  are 
generally  patient.  She  went  without  a  struggle.  The  last 
words  I  heard  her  utter  were,  “Yes,  Lord;”  after  which  she 
breathed  but  once.  A  half-smile  came  over  her  face,  which 
froze  upon  it,  and  remained,  until  the  coffin-lid  covered  it.  But 
I  shall  see  it,  I  trust,  a  whole  smile  some  day. 


A  ncestral  Wis  dom> 


3  37 


CHAPTER  XL. 

ANCESTRAL  WISDOM. 

I  did  think  of  having  a  chapter  about  children  before  finish¬ 
ing  my  book,  but  this  is  not  going  to  be  the  kind  of  chapter 
I  thought  of.  Like  mothers,  I  suppose,  I  think  myself  an 
authority  on  the  subject,  and,  which  is  to  me  more  assuring 
than  any  judgment  of  my  own,  my  father  says  that  I  have 
been  in  a  measure  successful  in  bringing  mine  up— only 
they’re  not  brought  up  very  far  yet.  Hence  arose  the  tempta¬ 
tion  to  lay  down  a  few  practical  rules  I  had  proved  and  found 
answer.  But  as  soon  as  I  began  to  contemplate  the  writing 
of  them  down  I  began  to  imagine  So-and-so  and  So-and-so 
attempting  to  carry  them  out,  and  saw  what  a  dreadful  muddle 
they  would  make  of  it,  and  what  mischief  would  thence  lie  at 
my  door.  Only  one  thing  can  be  worse  than  the  attempt  to 
carry  out  rules  whose  principles  are  not  understood,  and  that 
is  the  neglect  of  those  which  are  understood  and  seen  to  be 
right.  Suppose,  for  instance,  I  were  to  say  that  corporal 
punishment  was  wholesome,  involving  less  suffering  than  most 
other  punishments,  more  effectual  in  the  result,  and  leaving 
no  sting  or  sense  of  unkindness ;  whereas  mental  punishment 
considered  by  many  to  be  more  refined,  and  therefore  less 
degrading,  was  often  cruel  to  a  sensitive  child,  and  deaden¬ 
ing  to  a  stubborn  one  : — suppose  I  sard  this,  and  a  woman  like 
my  aunt  Millicent  were  to  take  it  up  :  —  her  whippings  would 
have  no  more  effect  than  if  her  rod  were  made  of  butterflies’ 
feathers ;  they  would  be  a  mockery  to  her  children,  and  bring 
law  into  contempt ;  while  if  a  certain  father  I  know  were  to 
be  convinced  by  my  arguments,  he  would  fill  his  children  with 
terror  of  him  now,  and  with  hatred  afterwards.  Of  the  last- 
mentioned  result  of  severity  I  know  at  least  one  instance.  At 
present,  the  father  to  whom  I  refer  disapproves  of  whipping 

z 


33$  The  Vicar's  Daughter . 

even  a  man  who  has  been  dancing  on  his  wife  wiJh  hob-nailed 
shoes,  because  it  would  tend  to  brutalize  him.  But  he  taunts, 
and  stings,  and  confines  in  solitude  for  lengthened  periods 
high  spirited  boys,  and  that  for  faults  which  I  should  consider 
very  venial. 

Then  again,  if  I  were  to  lay  down  the  rule  that  we  must 
be  as  tender  of  the  feelings  of  our  children  as  if  they  were 
angel-babies  who  had  to  learn,  alas !  to  understand  our  rough 
ways — how  would  that  be  taken  by  a  certain  French  couple  I 
know,  who,  not  appearing  until  after  the  dinner  to  which  they 
had  accepted  an  invitation  was  over,  gave  as  the  reason— that 
it  had  been  quite  out  of  their  power  ;  for  darling  Desiree,  their 
only  child,  had  declared  they  shouldn’t  go,  and  that  she  would 
cry  if  they  did  ; — nay,  went  so  far  as  to  insist  on  their  going 
to  bed,  which  they  were,  however  reluctant,  compelled  to  do  ? 
They  had  actually  undressed  and  pretended  to  retire  for  the 
night  ;  but  as  soon  as  she  was  safely  asleep,  rose  and  joined 
their  friends,  calm  in  the  consciousness  of  abundant  excuse. 

The  marvel  to  me  is  that  so  many  children  turn  out  so 
well. 

After  all,  I  think  there  can  be  no  harm  in  mentioning  a  few 
general  principles  laid  down  by  my  father.  They  are  such  as 
to  commend  themselves  most  to  the  most  practical. 

And  first  for  a  few  negative  ones. 

1.  Never  give  in  to  disobedience;  and  never  threaten  what 
you  are  not  prepared  to  carry  out. 

2.  Never  lose  your  temper.  I  do  not  say  Never  be  angry . 
Anger  is  sometimes  indispensable,  especially  where  there  has 
been  anything  mean,  dishonest,  or  cruel.  But  anger  is  very 
different  from  loss  of  temper.1 

1  My  aunt  Millicent  is  always  saying,  “  I  am  grieceved  with  you.” 
But  the  announcement  begets  no  sign  of  responsive  grief  on  the 
face  of  the  stolid  child  before  her.  She  never  whipped  a  child  in 
her  life.  If  she  had,  and  it  had  but  roused  some  positive  anger  in 
the  child  instead  of  that  undertone  of  complaint  which  is  always 
oozing  out  of  every  one  of  them,  I  think  it  would  have  been  a  gain. 


Ancestral  Wisdom. 


339 

3.  Of  all  things,  never  sneer  at  them ;  and  be  careful,  even, 
how  you  rally  them. 

4.  Do  not  try  to  work  on  their  feelings.  Feelings  are  far 
too  delicate  things  to  be  used  for  tools.  It  is  like  taking  the 
mainspring  out  of  your  watch  and  notching  it  for  a  saw.  It  may 
be  a  wonderful  saw,  but  how  fares  your  watch  ?  Especially 
avoid  doing  so  in  connexion  with  religious  things,  for  so  you 
will  assuredly  deaden  them  to  all  that  is  finest.  Let  your 
feelings,  not  your  efforts  on  theirs,  affect  them  with  a  sym¬ 
pathy  the  more  powerful  that  it  is  not  forced  upon  them  ;  and 
in  order  to  this,  avoid  being  too  English  in  the  hiding  of 
your  feelings.  A  man’s  own  family  has  a  right  to  share  in  his 
good  feelings. 

5.  Never  show  that  you  doubt  except  you  are  able  to  con¬ 
vict.  To  doubt  an  honest  child  is  to  do  what  you  can  to 
make  a  liar  of  him ;  and  to  believe  a  liar,  if  he  is  not  altogether 
shameless,  is  to  shame  him. 

The  common-minded  masters  in  schools  who,  unlike  the 
ideal  Arnold,  are  in  the  habit  of  disbelieving  boys,  have  a  large 
share  in  making  the  liars  they  so  often  are.  Certainly  the 
vileness  ofa  lie  is  not  the  same  in  one  who  knows  that  what¬ 
ever  he  says  will  be  regarded  with  suspicion  ;  and  the  master 
who  does  not  know  an  honest  boy  after  he  has  been  some 
time  in  his  class,  gives  good  reason  for  doubting  whether  he 

But  the  poor  lady  is  one  of  the  whiny-piny  people,  and  must  be  in 
preparation  for  a  development  of  which  I  have  no  prevision.  The 
only  stroke  of  originality  I  thought  I  knew  of  her  was  this.  To  the 
register  of  her  children’s  births,  baptisms,  and  confirmations, 
entered  on  a  grandly  ornamented  fly-leaf  of  the  family  bible,  she 
has  subjoined  the  record  of  every  disease  each  has  had,  with  the 
year,  month,  and  day,  (and  in  one  case  the  hour,)  when  each  dis¬ 
temper  made  its  appearance.  After  most  of  the  main  entries  you 
may  read — “  Cut  his  (or  her)  first  tooth  ” — at  such  a  date.  But,  alas 
for  the  originality  !  she  has  just  told  me  that  her  maternal  grand¬ 
mother  did  the  same.  How  strange  that  she  and  my  father  should 
have  had  the  same  father  !  If  they  had  had  the  same  mother  too# 
I  should  have  been  utterly  bewildered. 

z  2 


340 


The  Vicar's  Daughter. 

be  himself  an  honest  man,  and  incapable  of  the  lying  he  is  ready 
to  attribute  to  all  alike. 

This  last  is  my  own  remark,  not  my  father’s.  I  have  an 
honest  boy  at  school,  and  I  know  how  he  fares.  I  say  honest, 
for  though  as  a  mother  I  can  hardly  expect  to  be  believed,  I 
have  ground  for  believing  that  he  would  rather  die  than  lie. 
I  know  /  would  rather  he  died  than  lied. 

6.  Instil  no  religious  doctrine  apart  from  its  duty.  If  it 
have  no  duty  as  its  necessary  embodiment,  the  doctrine  may 
well  be  regarded  as  doubtful. 

7.  Do  not  be  hard  on  mere  quarrelling,  which,  like  a  storm 
in  nature,  is  often  helpful  in  clearing  the  moral  atmosphere. 
Stop  it  by  a  judgment  between  the  parties.  But  be  severe  as 
to  the  kind  of  quarrelling,  and  the  temper  shown  in  it.  Espe¬ 
cially  give  no  quarter  to  any  unfairness  arising  from  greed 
or  spite.  Use  your  strongest  language  with  regard  to  that. 

Now  for  a  few  of  my  father’s  positive  rules. 

1.  Always  let  them  come  to  you,  and  always  hear  what  they 
have  to  say.  If  they  bring  a  complaint  always  examine  into 
it,  and  dispense  pure  justice,  and  nothing  but  justice. 

2.  Cultivate  a  love  of  giving  fair-play.  Every  one,  of 
course,  likes  to  receive  fair  play,  but  no  one  ought  to  be  left 
to  imagine  therefore,  that  he  loves  fair- play. 

3.  Teach  from  the  very  first,  from  the  infancy  capable  of 
sucking  a  sugar  plum,  to  share  with  neighbours.  Never  refuse 
the  offering  a  child  brings  you  except  you  have  a  good  reason 
— and  give  it.  And  never  pretend  to  partake :  that  involves 
hideous  possibilities  in  its  effects  on  the  child. 

The  necessity  of  giving  a  reason  for  refusing  a  kindness,  has 
no  relation  to  what  is  supposed  by  some  to  be  the  necessity 
of  giving  a  reason  with  every  command.  There  is  no  such 
necessity.  Of  course  there  ought  to  be  a  reason  in  every 
command.  That  it  may  be  desirable  sometimes,  to  explain  it, 
is  all  my  father  would  allow. 

4.  Allow  a  great  deal  of  noise — as  much  as  is  fairly  en- 
duiable  ;  but  the  moment  they  seem  getting  beyond  their  own 


\ 


Ancestral  Wisdom, . 


341 

control,  stop  the  noise  at  once.  Also,  put  a  stop  at  once  to 
all  fretting  and  grumbling. 

5.  Favour  the  development  of  each  in  the  direction  of  his 
own  bent.  Help  him  to  develope  himself ;  but  do  not  push 
development.  To  do  so  is  most  dangerous. 

6.  Mind  the  moral  nature,  and  it  will  take  care  of  the  in¬ 
tellectual.  In  other  words,  the  best  thing  for  the  intellect  is 
the  cultivation  of  the  conscience,  not  in  casuistry,  but  in  con¬ 
duct.  It  may  take  longer  to  arrive,  but  the  end  will  be  the 
highest  possible  health,  vigour,  and  ratio  of  progress. 

7.  Discourage  emulation,  and  insist  on  duty — not  often,  but 
strongly. 

Having  written  these  out,  chiefly  from  notes  I  had  made 
of  a  long  talk  with  my  father,  I  gave  them  to  Percivale  to 
read. 

“  Rather— ponderous,  don’t  you  think,  for  weaving  into  a 
narrative  ?  ”  was  his  remark. 

“  My  narrative  is  full  of  things  far  from  light,”  I  returned. 

“  I  didn’t  say  they  were  heavy,  you  know.  That  is  quite 
another  thing.” 

“  I  am  afraid  you  mean  generally  uninteresting.  But  there 
are  parents  who  might  make  them  useful,  and  the  rest  of  my 
readers  could  skip  them.” 

“  I  only  mean  that  a  narrative,  be  it  ever  so  serious,  must 
not  entrench  on  the  moral  essay  or  sermon.” 

“  It  is  much  too  late,  I  fear,  to  tell  me  that.  But,  please, 
remember  I  am  not  giving  the  precepts  as  of  my  own  dis¬ 
covery,  though  I  have  sought  to  verify  them  by  practice,  but 
as  what  they  are— my  father’s.” 

He  did  not  seem  to  see  the  bearing  of  the  argument. 

“  I  want  my  book  to  be  useful,”  I  said.  “  As  a  mother, 
I  want  to  share  the  help  I  have  had  myself,  with  other 
mothers.” 

“  I  am  only  speaking  from  the  point  of  art,”  he  returned. 

“  And  that’s  a  point  I  have  never  thought  of— any  farther, 
at  least,  than  wTting  as  good  English  as  I  might.” 


342 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter . 

“  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  have  never  thought  of  the  shape 
of  the  book  your  monthly  papers  would  make?” 

“  Yes.  —  I  don't  think  I  have. — Scarcely  at  all,  I  believe.” 

“  Then  you  ought.” 

“  But  I  know  nothing  about  that  kind  of  thing.  I  haven’t 
an  idea  in  my  head  concerning  the  art  of  book-making.  And 
it  is  too  late,  so  far  at  least  as  this  book  is  concerned,  to 
begin  to  study  it  now.” 

“  I  wonder  how  my  pictures  would  get  on  in  that  way.” 

“  You  can  see  how  my  book  has  got  on.  Well  or  ill,  there 
it  all  but  is.  I  had  to  do  with  facts  and  not  with  art.” 

“  But  even  a  biography,  in  the  ordering  of  its  parts,  in  the 
arrangement  of  its  light  and  shade,  and  in  the  harmony  of 
the — ” 

“  It’s  too  late,  I  tell  you,  husband.  The  book  is  all  but 
done.  Besides,  one  who  would  write  a  biography  after  the 
fashion  of  a  picture,  would  probably,  even  without  attributing 
a  single  virtue  that  wras  not  present,  or  suppressing  a  single 
fault  that  was,  yet  produce  a  false  book.  The  principle  I  have 
followed  has  been  to  try  from  the  first  to  put  as  much  value, 
that  is,  as  much  truth,  as  I  could,  into  my  story.  Perhaps 
instead  of  those  maxims  of  my  father’s  for  the  education  of 
children,  you  would  have  preferred  such  specimens  of  your 
own  children’s  sermons  as  you  made  me  read  to  you  for  th» 
twentieth  time  yesterday  ?  ” 

Instead  of  smiling  with  his  own  quiet  kind  smile,  as  he 
worked  on  at  his  picture  of  St  Athanasius  wuth  “  no  friend  but 
God  and  Death,”  he  burst  into  a  merry  laugh,  and  said, — 

“  A  capital  idea !  If  you  give  those,  word  for  word,  I 
shall  yield  the  precepts.” 

“  Are  you  out  of  your  five  wits,  husband  ?  ”  I  exclaimed. 
11  Would  you  have  everybody  take  me  for  the  latest  incarna¬ 
tion  of  the  oldest  insanity  in  the  wrorld — that  of  maternity? 
But  I  am  really  an  idiot,  for  you  could  never  have  meant 
it  I” 

“  I  do  most  soberly  and  distinctly  mean  it.  They  would 


Ancestral  Wisdom . 


343 


amuse  your  readers  very  much,  and,  without  offending  those 
who  may  prefer  your  father’s  maxims  to  your  children’s  ser¬ 
mons,  would  incline  those  who  might  otherwise  vote  the  former 
a  bore,  to  regard  them  with  the  clemency  resulting  from 
amusement.” 

“  But  I  desire  no  such  exercise  of  clemency.  The  precepts 
are  admirable ;  and  those  need  not  take  them  who  do  not 
like  them.” 

“  So  the  others  can  skip  the  sermons ;  but  I  am  sure  they 
will  give  a  few  mothers  at  least  a  little  amusement.  They 
will  prove  besides  that  you  follow  your  own  rule  of  putting  a 
very  small  quantity  of  sage  into  the  stuffing  of  your  goslings ; 
as  also  that  you  have  succeeded  in  making  them  capable  of 
manifesting  what  nonsense  is  indigenous  in  them.  I  think 
them  very  funny:  that  may  be  paternal  prejudice  ;  you  think 
them  very  silly  as  well :  that  may  be  maternal  solicitude.  X 
suspect  that,  the  more  of  a  philosopher  any  one  of  your 
readers  is,  the  more  suggestive  will  he  find  these  genuine 
utterances  of  an  age  at  which  the  means  of  expression  so 
much  exceed  the  matter  to  be  expressed.” 

The  idea  began  to  look  not  altogether  so  absurd  as  at  first : 
and  a  little  more  argument  sufficed  to  make  me  resolve  to 
put  the  absurdities  themselves  to  the  test  of  passing  leisurely 
through  my  brain  while  I  copied  them  out  possibly  for  the 
press. 

The  result  is  that  I  am  going  to  risk  printing  them,  deter¬ 
mined,  should  I  find  afterwards  that  I  have  made  a  blunder, 
to  throw  the  whole  blame  upon  my  husband. 

What  still  makes  me  shrink  the  most  is  the  recollection 
of  how  often  I  have  condemned,  as  too  silly  to  repeat,  things 
which  reporting  mothers  evidently  regarded  as  proofs  of  a 
stupendous  intellect.  But  the  folly  of  these  constitutes  the 
chief  part  of  their  merit ;  and  I  do  not  see  how  I  can  be  mis¬ 
taken  for  supposing  them  clever,  except  it  be  in  regard  of  a 
glimmer  of  purpose  now  and  then,  and  the  occasional  mani¬ 
festation  of  the  cunning  of  the  stump  orator,  with  his  subter- 


344 


The  Vicar's  Daughter . 

fuges  to  conceal  his  embarrassment  when  he  finds  his  oil 
failing  him,  and  his  lamp  burning  low. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

CHILD  NONSENSE. 

One  word  of  introductory  explanation. 

During  my  husband’s  illness,  Marion  came  often,  but, 
until  he  began  to  recover,  would  generally  spend  with  the 
children  the  whole  of  the  time  she  had  to  spare,  not  even 
permitting  me  to  know  that  she  was  in  the  house.  It  was  a 
great  thing  for  them;  for  although  they  were  well  enough 
cared  for,  they  were  necessarily  left  to  themselves  a  good  deal 
more  than  hitherto.  Hence  perhaps  it  came  that  they  betook 
themselves  to  an  amusement  not  uncommon  with  children,  of 
which  I  had  as  yet  seen  nothing  amongst  them. 

One  evening,  when  my  husband  had  made  a  little  progress 
towards  recovery,  Marion  came  to  sit  with  me  in  his  room  for 
an  hour. 

“  I’ve  brought  you  something  I  want  to  read  to  you,”  she 
said,  “  if  you  think  Mr.  Percivale  can  bear  it.” 

I  told  her  I  believed  he  could,  and  she  proceeded  to  explain 
what  it  was. 

"  One  morning,  when  I  went  into  the  nursery,  I  found  the 
children  playing  at  church — or  rather  at  preaching,  for  except 
a  few  minutes  of  singing,  the  preaching  occupied  the  whole 
time.  There  were  two  clergymen,  Ernest  and  Charles,  alter¬ 
nately  incumbent  and  curate.  The  chief  duty  of  the  curate 
for  the  time  being  was  to  lend  his  aid  to  the  rescue  of  his 
incumbent  from  any  difficulty  in  which  the  extemporaneous 
character  of  his  discourse  might  land  him.” 


s 


Child  Nonsense .  345 

I  interrupt  Marion  to  mention  that  the  respective  ages  of 
Ernest  and  Charles  were  then  eight  and  six. 

“  The  pulpit,”  she  continued,  “  was  on  the  top  of  the  cup¬ 
board  under  the  cuckoo-clock,  and  consisted  of  a  chair  and  a 
cushion.  There  were  prayer-books  in  abundance,  of  which 
neither  of  them,  I  am  happy  to  say,  made  other  than  a  pre¬ 
tended  use  for  reference.  Charles,  indeed,  who  was  preach¬ 
ing  when  I  entered,  can't  read ;  but  both  have  far  too  much 
reverence  to  use  sacred  words  in  their  games,  as  the  sermons 
themselves  will  instance  :  I  took  down  almost  every  word 
they  said,  frequent  embarrassments  and  interruptions  enabling 
me  to  do  so.  Ernest  was  acting  as  clerk,  and  occasionally 
prompted  the  speaker  when  his  eloquence  failed  him,  or  re¬ 
proved  members  of  the  congregation,  which  consisted  of  the 
two  nurses  and  the  other  children,  who  were  inattentive. 
Charles  spoke  with  a  good  deal  of  unction,  and  had  quite  a 
professional  air  when  he  looked  down  on  the  big  open  book, 
referred  to  one  or  other  of  the  smaller  ones  at  his  side,  or 
directed  looks  of  reprehension  at  this  or  that  hearer.  You 
would  have  thought  he  had  cultivated  the  imitation  of  popular 
preachers,  whereas  he  tells  me  he  has  been  to  church  only 
three  times.  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  give  the  opening  remarks, 
for  I  lost  them  by  being  late  ;  but  what  I  did  hear  was  this.” 

She  then  read  from  her  paper  as  follows — and  lent  it  me 
afterwards.  I  merely  copy  it. 

“  Once,” — (  Charles  was  proceeding  when  Marion  entered ) — 
“  there  lived  an  aged  man,  and  another  who  was  a  very  aged 
man  ;  and  the  very  aged  man  was  going  to  die,  and  every¬ 
one  but  the  aged  man  thought  the  other,  the  very  aged  man, 
wouldn’t  die. — I  do  this  to  explam  it  to  you. — He,  the  man 
who  was  really  going  to  die,  was — b  will  look  in  the  dic¬ 
tionary — ”  {He  looks  in  the  book,  and  gives  out  with  much 
confidence)  “ — was  two  thousand  and  eighty-eight  years  old. 
Well,  the  other  man  was — well,  then,  the  other  man  ’at  knew 
he  was  going  to  die,  was  about  four  thousand  and  two — not 
nearly  so  old,  you  see.” — {Here  Charles  whispers  with  Ernest , 


346 


The  Vicar's  Daughter. 

and  then  announces  very  loud ) — “  This  is  out  of  St.  James. — The 
very  aged  man  had  a  wife  and  no  children,  and  the  other  had 
no  wife  but  a  great  many  children.  The  fact  was — this  was 
how  it  was — the  wife  died,  and  so  he  had  the  children. 
Well,  the  man  I  spoke  of  first,  well,  he  died  in  the  middle  of 
the  night  f  {A  look  as  much  as  to  say,  “  There  !  what  do  you, 
think  of  that  ?  ”) — “  an’  nobody  but  the  aged  man  knew  he 
was  going  to  die.  Well,  in  the  morning,  when  his  wife  got 
up,  she  spoke  to  him,  and  he  was  dead  !  ” — ( A  pause.) — 
“Perfectly,  sure  enough — dead!” — ( Then ,  with  a  change  of 
voice  and  manner) — “  He  wasn’t  really  dead,  because  you 
know” — ( abruptly  and  nervously) — “Shut  the  door! — you 
know  where  he  went,  because  in  the  morning  next  day — ” 
{He  pauses  and  looks  round.  Ernest,  out  of  a  hook,  prompts— 
“The  angels  take  him  away”)  “  —  came  the  angels  to  take 
him  away,  up  to  where  you  kno w A  —  (All  solemn.  He  resumes 
quickly,  with  a  change  of  manner) — “  They,  all  the  rest,  died 
of  grief.  Now  you  must  expect,  as  they  all  died  of  grief, 
that  lots  of  angels  must  have  come  to  take  them  away. — * 
Freddy  will  go  when  the  sermon  isn't  over !  That  is  such  a 
bother!” 

At  this  point,  Marion  paused  in  her  reading,  and  resumed 
the  narrative  form. 

“  Freddy  however  was  too  much  for  them ;  so  Ernest  be¬ 
took  himself  to  the  organ,  which  was  a  chest  of  drawers,  the 
drawers  doing  duty  as  stops,  while  Freddy  went  up  to  the  pulpit 
to  say  ‘  Good-bye/  and  shake  hards,  for  which  he  was  mildly 
reproved  by  both  his  brothers.” 

My  husband  and  I  were  so  much  amused,  that  Marion  said 
she  had  another  sermon,  also  preached  by  Charles,  on  the 
same  day,  after  a  short  interval ;  and  at  our  request  she  read 
it.  Here  it  is. 

“  Once  upon  a  time — a  long  while  ago,  in  a  little —  Ready 
now  ? — Well,  there  lived  in  a  rather  big  house,  with  quite  clean 
windows— it  was  in  winter,  so  nobody  noticed  them — but  they 
were  quite  white ,  they  were  so  clean.  There  lived  some  angels 


Child  Nonsense . 


347 


in  the  house — it  was  in  the  air,  nobody  knew  why,  but  it  did. 
No,  I  don’t  think  it  did — I  dunno,  but  there  lived  in  it  lots  of 
children — two  hundred  and  thirty-two — and  they — Oh  !  I’m 
gettin’  distracted!  It  is  too  bad!” — (Quiet  is  restored .) — • 
“  Their  mother  and  father  had  died,  but  they  were  very  rich. 
Now  you  see  what  a  heap  of  children,  two  hundred  and 
thirty-two  !  and  yet  it  seemed  like  one  to  them,  they  were  so 
rich.  That  was  it !  it  seemed  like  one  to  them  because  they 
were  so  rich.  Now  the  children  knew  what  to  get,  and  I’ll  ex¬ 
plain  to  you  now  why  they  knew — and  this  is  how  they  knew. 
The  angels  came  down  on  the  eaith,  and  told  them  their 
mother  had  sent  messages  to  them  ;  and  their  mother  and 
father —  Don't  talk  !  I’m  gettin?  extracted  !  ”  (Puts  his  hand 
to  his  head  in  a  frenzied  manner.')  “Now,  my  brother,”  (This 
severely  to  a  still  inattentive  member .)  “  I’ll  tell  you  what  the 
angels  told  them — what  to  get.  What — how — now  I  will  tell 
you  how — yes,  how  they  knew  what  they  were  to  eat.  Well,  the 
fact  was  that —  Freddy  is  just  towards  my  face,  and  he’s  laugh¬ 
ing  ! —  I’m  going  to  explain.  The  mother  and  father  had  the 
wings  on,  and  so,  of  course —  Ernest,  I  want  you — ”  ( They 
whisper.)  “  — they  were  he  and  she  angels,  and  they  told  them 
what  to  have.  Well,  one  thing  was — shall  I  tell  you  what  it 
was  ? — Look  at  two  hundred  and  two  in  another  book —  one 
thing  was  a  leg  of  mutton.  Of  course,  as  the  mother  and 
father  were  angels,  they  had  to  fly  up  again.  Now  I’m 
going  to  explain  how  they  got  it  done.  They  had  four 
servants  and  one  cook,  so  that  would  be  five.  Well,  this 
cook  did  them.  The  eldest  girl  was  sixteen,  and  her  name 
was  Snowdrop,  because  she  had  snowy  arms  and  cheeks,  and 
was  a  very  nice  girl.  The  eldest  boy  was  seventeen,  and  his 
name  was  John.  He  always  told  the  cook  what  they’d  have 
— no,  the  girl  did  that.  And  the  boy  was  now  grown  up.  So 
they  would  be  mother  and  father.”  ( Signs  of  dissent  among  the 
audience.)  “  Of  course ,  when  they  were  so  old,  they  would  be 
mother  and  father,  and  master  of  the  servants.  And  they  were 
very  happy,  but—  they  didn’t  quite  like  it.  And — and — ” 


348 


The  Vicar’s  Daughter. 

(with  a  great  hurst )  u  you  wouldn’t  like  it  if  your  mother  were 
to  die  !  And  I’ll  end  it  next  Sunday.  Let  us  sing.” 

“  The  congregation  then  sung  Curly  Locks”  said  Marion, 
“and  dispersed— Ernest  complaining  that  Charley  gave  them 
such  large  qualities  of  numbers,  and  there  weren’t  so  many  in 
the  whole  of  his  book.  After  a  brief  interval  the  sermon  was 
resumed.” 

“  Text  is  No.  66.  I’ve  a  good  congregation  !  I  got  to  where 
the  children  did  not  like  it  without  their  mother  and  father. 
Well,  you  must  remember  this  was  a  long  while  ago,  so  what 
I’m  going  to  speak  about  could  be  possib’e.  Well,  their  house 
was  on  the  top  of  a  high  and  steep  hill,  and  at  the  bottom,  a 
little  from  the  hill  was  a  knignt’s  house.  There  were  three 
knights  living  in  it.  Next  to  it  was  stables  with  three  horses  in 
it.  Sometimes  they  went  up  to  this  house,  and  wondered  what 
was  in  it.  They  never  knew,  but  saw  the  angels  come.  The 
knights  were  out  all  day,  and  only  came  home  for  meals.  And 
they  wondered  what  on  earth  the  angels  were  doin’ — goin’  in  the 
house.  They  found  out  what — what,  and  the  question  was — 
I’ll  explain  what  it  was.  Ernest,  come  here.”  (Ernest  remarks 
to  the  audie?ice ,  “  I’m  curate,”  a?id  to  Charles ,  “  Well  but, 
Charles,  you’re  goin’  to  explain,  you  know and  Charles  re- 
sumes. )  “  The  fact  was  that  this  was — If  you’d  like  to  explain 
it  more  to  yourselves,  you’d  better  look  in  your  books,  No.  1828. 
Before,  the  angels  didn’t  speak  loud,  so  the  knights  couldn’t 
hear;  now  they  spoke  louder,  so  that  the  knights  could  visit 
them  ’cause  they  knew  their  names.  They  hadn’t  many 
visitors,  but  they  had  the  knights  in  there,  and  that’s  all.” 

I  am  still  very  much  afraid  that  all  this  nonsense  will  hardly 
be  interesting  even  to  parents.  But  I  may  as  well  suffer  for  a 
sheep  as  a  lamb,  and  as  I  had  an  opportunity  of  hearing  two 
such  sermons  myself  not  long  after,  I  shall  give  them,  trusting 
they  will  occupy  far  less  space  in  print  than  they  do  in  my 
foolish  heart. 

It  was  Ernest  who  was  in  the  pulpit  and  just  commencing 
his  discourse  when  I  entered  the  nursery,  and  sat  down  with 


Child  Nonsense . 


349 


the  congregation.  Sheltered  by  a  clothes-horse,  apparently 
set  up  for  a  screen,  I  took  out  my  pencil,  and  reported  on 
a  flyleaf  of  the  book  I  had  been  reading. 

“  My  brother  was  goin’  to  preach  about  the  wicked  :  I  will 
preach  about  the  good.  Twenty-sixth  day.  In  the  time  of 
Elizabeth  there  was  a  very  old  house.  It  was  so  old  that  it  was 
pulled  down,  and  a  quite  new  one  was  built  instead.  Some 
people  who  lived  in  it  did  not  like  it  so  much  now  as  they  did 
when  it  was  old.  I  take  their  part,  you  know,  and  think  they 
were  quite  right  in  preferring  the  old  one  to  the  ugly  bare  new 
one.  They  left  it — sold  it — and  got  into  another  old  house 
instead.” 

Here  I  am  sorry  to  say  his  curate  interjected  the  scornful 
remark, — 

“  He’s  not  lookin’  in  the  book  a  bit  !  ” 

But  the  preacher  went  on  without  heeding  the  attack  on 
his  orthodoxy. 

“  This  other  old  house  was  still  more  uncomfortable — it 
was  very  draughty ;  the  gutters  were  always  leaking ;  and  they 
wished  themselves  back  in  the  new  house.  So  you  see,  if  you 
wish  for  a  better  thing,  you  don’t  get  it  so  good  after  all.” 

“  Ernest,  that  is  about  the  bad,  after  all  !”  cried  Charles. 

“  Well,  it’s  silly d  remarked  Freddy  severely. 

“  But  I  wrote  it  myself,”  pleaded  the  preacher  from  the 
pulpit,  and,  in  consideration  of  the  fact,  he  was  allowed  to  go 
on. 

“  I  was  reading  about  them  being  always  uncomfortable.  At 
last  they  decided  to  go  back  to  their  own  house  which  they 
had  sold.  They  had  to  pay  so  much  to  get  it  back,  that 
they  had  hardly  any  money  left,  and  then  they  got  so  un¬ 
happy,  and  the  husband  whipt  his  wife  and  took  to  drinking. 
That’s  a  lesson.”  ( Here  the preacher’s  voice  became  very  plaintive. ) 
“  — That’s  a  lesson  to  show  you  shouldn’t  try  to  get  the  better 
thing,  for  it  turns  out  worse,  and  then  you  get  sadder  and 
everything.” 

He  paused,  evidently  too  mournful  proceed.  Freddy 


350  The  Vicar's  Daughter . 

again  remarked  that  it  was  silly  ;  but  Charles  interposed  a  word 
for  the  preacher. 

“  It’s  a  good  lesson ,  I  think.  A  good  lesson ,  I  say,”  he  re¬ 
peated,  as  if  he  would  not  be  supposed  to  consider  it  much 
of  a  sermon. 

But  here  the  preacher  recovered  himself  and  summed  up. 

“  See  how  it  comes — wanting  to  get  everything,  you  come  to 
the  bad  and  drinking.  And  I  think  I’ll  leave  off  here.  Let  us 
sing.” 

The  song  was  Little  Robin  Redbreast ,  during  which  Charles 
remarked  to  Freddy,  apparently  by  way  of  pressing  home  the 
lesson  upon  his  younger  brother — 

“  Fancy  !  hoggin’  his  wife  !  ” 

Then  he  got  into  the  pulpit  himself,  and  commenced  an 
oration. 

“  Chapter  eighty-eight.  The  Wicked. — Well,  the  time  when 
the  story  was,  was  about  Herod.  There  were  some  wicked 
people  wanderin’  about  there — and  they — not  killed  them,  you 
know,  but — went  to  the  judge.  We  shall  see  what  they  did  to 
them.  I  tell  you  this  to  make  you  understand.  Now  the  story 
begins— but  I  must  think  a  little.  Ernest,  let’s  sing  Since  first 
I  saw  your  face. 

“  When  the  wicked  man  was  taken  then  to  the  good  judge — 
there  were  some  good  people  :  when  I  said  I  was  going  to  preach 
about  the  wicked,  I  did  not  mean  that  there  were  no  good, 
only  a  good  lot  of  wicked.  There  were  pleacemans  about  here, 
and  they  put  him  in  prison  for  a  few  days,  and  then  the  judge 
could  see  about  what  he  is  to  do  with  him.  At  the  end  of  the 
few  days,  the  judge  asked  him  if  he  would  stay  in  prison  for  life 
or  be  hanged.” 

Here  arose  some  inquiries  among  the  congregation  as  tc 
what  the  wicked,  of  whom  the  prisoner  was  one,  had  done 
that  was  wrong ;  to  which  Charles  replied  : 

“  Oh  !  they  murdered  and  killed  ;  they  stealed,  and  they 
were  very  wicked  altogether.  Well,”  he  went  on,  resuming  his 
discourse,  “  the  morning  came,  and  the  judge  said,  1  Get  the 


s 


Child  Nonsense . 


351 


ropes  and  my  throne,  and  order  the  people  not  to  come  to  see 
the  hanginV  For  the  man  was  decided  to  be  hanged.  Now 
the  people  would  come.  They  were  the  wicked,  and  they 
would  persist  in  cornin’.  They  were  the  wicked,  and  if  that 
was  the  fact ,  the  judge  must  do  something  to  them. 

“  Chapter  eighty-nine.  The  Hangin\ — We’ll  have  some 
singin’  while  I  think.” 

Yankee  Doodle  was  accordingly  sung  with  much  enthusiasm 
and  solemnity.  Then  Charles  resumed. 

“  Well,  they  had  to  put  the  other  people  who  persisted  in 
coming,  in  prison,  till  the  man  who  murdered  people  was 
hanged.  I  think  my  brother  will  go  on.” 

He  descended,  and  gave  place  to  Ernest,  who  began  with 
vigour. 

“  We  were  reading  about  Herod— weren’t  we?  Then  the 
wicked  people  would  come,  and  had  to  be  put  to  death.  They 
were  on  the  man’s  side,  and  they  all  called  out  that  he 
hadn’t  had  his  wish  before  he  died,  as  they  did  in  those  days. 
So  of  course  he  wished  for  his  life,  and  of  course  the  judge 
wouldn’t  let  him  have  that  wish,  and  so  he  wished  to  speak  to 
his  friends,  and  they  let  him.  And  the  nasty  wicked  people 
took  him  away,  and  he  was  never  seen  in  that  country  any 
more.  And  that’s  enough  to-day,  I  think.  Let  us  sing 
Lord  Lovel  he  stood  at  his  castle-gate ,  a-combing  his  milk-white 
steedT 

At  the  conclusion  of  this  mournful  ballad,  the  congregation 
was  allowed  to  disperse.  But  before  they  had  gone  far,  they 
were  recalled  by  the  offer  of  a  more  secular  entertainment  from 
Charles,  who  reascended  the  pulpit,  and  delivered  himself  as 
follows : 

“  Well,  the  play  is  called — not  a  proverb  or  a  charade  it  isn’t 
* — it's  a  play  called  Hie  Birds  and  the  Babies.  Well ! 

“  Once  there  was  a  little  cottage  and  lots  of  little  babies  in  it. 
Nobody  knew  who  the  babies  were.  They  were  so  happy  ! 
Now,  I  can’t  explain  it  to  you  how  they  came  together;  they 
had  no  father  and  mother,  but  they  were  brothers  and  sisters. 


352 


The  Vicar's  Daughter, 

They  never  gren>,  and  they  didn’t  like  it.  Now  you  wo  uldn’t 
like  not  to  grow — would  you  ?  They  had  a  little  garden,  and 
saw  a  great  many  birds  in  the  trees.  They  were  happy,  but 
didn’t  feel  happy — that’s  a  funny  thing  now  !  The  wicked 
fairies  made  them  unhappy,  and  the  good  fairies  made  them 
happy ;  they  gave  them  lots  of  toys.  But  then,  how  they  got 
their  living  ! 

“  Chapter  second,  called  The  Babies  at  Play. — The  fairies 
told  them  what  to  get — that  was  it ! — and  so  they  got  their 
living  very  nicely.  And  now  I  must  explain  what  they 
played  with.  First  was  a  house.  A  house.  Another,  dolls. 
They  were  very  happy,  and  felt  as  if  they  had  a  mother  and 
father,  but  they  hadn’t,  and  couldn't  make  it  out.  Couldn't — 
make —  it — out ! 

“  They  had  little  pumps  and  trees.  Then  they  had  babies’ 
rattles.  Babies'  rattles. — Oh  !  I’ve  said  hardly  anything  about 
the  birds — have  I  ? — an’  it’s  called  The  Birds  and  the  Babies  t 
— They  had  lots  of  little  pretty  robins  and  canaries  hanging 
round  the  ceiling,  and — shall  I  say  ? — ” 

Every  one  listened  expectant  during  the  pause  that  followed. 

“ — And  —  lived — happy — ever — after  P 

The  puzzle  in  it  all  is  chiefly  what  my  husband  hinted  at — 
why  and  how  both  the  desire  and  the  means  of  utterance 
should  so  long  precede  the  possession  of  anything  ripe  for 
utterance.  I  suspect  the  answer  must  lie  pretty  deep  in  some 
metaphysical  gulf  or  other. 

At  the  same  time,  the  struggle  to  speak  where  there  is  so 
little  to  utter  can  hardly  fail  to  suggest  the  thought  of  some 
efforts  of  a  more  pretentious  and  imposing  character. 

But  more  than  enough  ] 


Double ,  Double ,  Toil  and  Trouble . 


353 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

DOUBLE,  DOUBLE,  TOIL  AND  TROUBLE. 

I  had  for  a  day  or  two  fancied  that  Marion  was  looking  less 
bright  than  usual,  as  if  some  little  shadow  had  fallen  upon 
the  morning  of  her  life.  I  say  morning,  because,  although 
Marion  must  now  have  been  seven  or  eight  and  twenty,  her  life 
had  always  seemed  to  me  lighted  by  a  cool  clear  dewy 
morning  sun — over  whose  face  it  now  seemed  as  if  some  film 
of  noonday  cloud  had  begun  to  gather.  Unwilling  at  once  to 
assert  the  ultimate  privilege  of  friendship,  I  asked  her  if  any¬ 
thing  was  amiss  with  her  friends.  She  answered  that  all  was 
going  on  well — at  least  so  far  that  she  had  no  special  anxiety 
about  any  of  them.  Encouraged  by  a  half  conscious  and  more 
than  half  sad  smile,  I  ventured  a  little  farther. 

“  I  am  afraid  there  is  something  troubling  you,”  I  said. 

“  There  is,”  she  replied,  “  something  troubling  me  a  good 
deal  ;  but  I  hope  it  will  pass  away  soon.” 

The  sigh  which  followed,  however,  was  deep  though  gentle, 
and  indicated  a  fear  that  the  trouble  might  not  pass  so  soon. 

“  I  am  not  to  ask  you  any  questions,  I  suppose,”  I  returned. 

“  Better  not  at  present,”  she  answered.  “Iam  not  quite 
sure  that — ” 

She  paused  several  moments  before  finishing  her  sentence, 
then  added, — 

“ — that  I  am  at  liberty  to  tell  you  about  it.” 

“  Then  don’t  say  another  word,”  I  rejoined.  “  Only  when  I 
can  be  of  service  to  you,  you  will  let  me — won’t  you  ?  ” 

The  tears  rose  to  her  eyes. 

“  I  am  afraid  it  may  be  some  fault  of  mine,”  she  said.  “  I 
don’t  know.  I  can’t  tell.  I  don’t  understand  such  things.” 

She  sighed  again,  and  held  her  peace. 

It  was  enigmatical  enough.  One  thing  only  was  clear,  that 

a  a 


354 


The  Vicars  Daughter . 

at  present  I  was  not  wanted.  So  I  too  held  my  peace,  and  in 
a  few  minutes  Marion  went,  with  a  more  affectionate  leave- 
taking  than  usual,  for  her  friendship  was  far  less  demonstra¬ 
tive  than  that  of  most  women. 

I  pondered,  but  it  was  not  of  much  use.  Of  course  the  first 
thing  that  suggested  itself  was — Could  my  angel  be  in  love?  — 
and  with  some  mortal  mere  ?  The  very  idea  was  a  shock, 
simply  from  its  strangeness.  Of  course,  being  a  woman,  she 
might  be  in  love ;  but  the  two  ideas,  AIario?i  and  love ,  refused 
to  coalesce.  And  again,  was  it  likely  that  such  as  she,  her 
mind  occupied  with  so  many  other  absorbing  interests,  would 
fall  in  love  unprovoked,  unsolicited  ?  That  indeed  was  not 
likely.  Then  if,  solicited,  she  but  returned  love  for  love,  why 
was  she  sad  ?  The  new  experience  might,  it  is  true,  cause  such 
commotion  in  a  mind  like  hers  as  to  trouble  her  greatly.  She 
would  not  know  what  to  do  with  it,  nor  where  to  accommodate 
her  new  inmate  so  as  to  keep  him  from  meddling  with  affairs 
he  had  no  right  to  meddle  with :  it  was  easy  enough  to  fancy 
him  troublesome  in  a  house  like  hers.  But  surely  of  all  women 
she  might  be  able  to  meet  her  own  liabilities.  And  if  this  were 
all,  why  should  she  have  said  she  hoped  it  would  soon  pass  ? 
That  might,  however,  mean  only  that  she  hoped  soon  to  get 
her  guest  brought  amenable  to  the  law  and  ordered  range  of  her 
existing  household  economy. 

There  was  yet  a  conjecture,  however,  which  seemed  to  suit 
the  case  better.  If  Marion  knew  little  of  what  is  commonly 
called  love,  that  is,  “  the  attraction  of  correlative  unlikeness, 
as  I  once  heard  it  defined  by  a  metaphysical  friend  of  my 
father’s,  there  was  no  one  who  knew  more  of  the  tenderness  of 
compassion  than  she ;  and  was  it  not  possible  some  one  might 
be  wanting  to  marry  her  to  whom  she  could  not  give  herself 
away?  This  conjecture  was  at  least  ample  enough  to  cover  the 
facts  in  my  possession — which  were  scanty  indeed  —  in  number 
hardly  dual.  But  who  was  there  to  dare  offer  love  to  my 
saint  ?  Roger  ?  Pooh  !  pooh  !  Mr.  Blackstone  ?  Ah  !  I 
had.  seen  him  once  lately  looking  at  her  with  an  expression  of 


s 


Double,  Double,  Toil  and  Trouble .  355 

more  than  ordinary  admiration.  But  what  man  that  knew 
anything  of  her  could  help  looking  at  her  with  such  an  admira¬ 
tion?  If  it  was  Mr.  Blackstone — why,  he  might  dare — yes,  why 
should  he  not  dare  to  love  her — especially  if  he  couldn’t 
help  it,  as,  of  course,  he  couldn’t?  Was  he  not  one  whose 
love — simply  because  he  was  a  true  man  from  the  heart  to  the 
hands — would  honour  any  woman,  even  Saint  Clare — as  she 
must  be  when  the  church  has  learned  to  do  its  business  without 
the  pope  ?  Only  he  mustn’t  blame  me,  if,  after  all,  I  should 
think  he  offered  less  than  he  sought — or  her,  if,  entertaining  no 
question  of  worth  whatever,  she  should  yet  refuse  to  listen  to 
him — as  truly  there  was  more  than  a  possibility  she  might. 

If  it  were  Mr.  Blackstone,  certainly  I  knew  no  man  who 
could  understand  her  better,  or  whose  modes  of  thinking  and 
working  would  more  thoroughly  fall  in  with  her  own.  True, 
he  was  peculiar ;  that  is,  he  had  kept  the  angles  of  his  indi¬ 
viduality  for  all  the  grinding  of  the  social  mill ;  his  manners 
were  abrupt,  and  drove  at  the  heart  of  things  too  directly, 
seldom  suggesting  a  by-your-leuve  to  those  whose  prejudices  he 
overturned  ;  true,  also,  that  his  person,  though  dignified,  was 
somewhat  ungainly — with  an  ungainliness,  however,  which  I 
could  well  imagine  a  wife  learning  absolutely  to  love;  but 
on  the  whole  the  thing  was  reasonable.  Only — what  would 
become  of  her  friends  ?  There,  I  could  hardly  doubt,  there 
was  the  rub  ! 

Let  no  one  think,  when  I  say  we  went  to  Mr.  Blackstone’s 
church  the  next  Sunday,  that  it  had  anything  to  do  with  these 
speculations.  We  often  went  on  the  first  Sunday  of  the 
month. . 

“  What’s  the  matter  with  Blackstone  ?  ”  said  my  husband  as 
we  came  home. 

“  What  do  you  think  is  the  matter  with  him  ?  ”  I  returned. 

“  I  don’t  know.  He  wasn’t  himself.” 

“  I  thought  he  was  more  than  himself,”  I  rejoined  ;  “  for  I 
never  heard  even  him  read  the  litany  with  such  fervour.” 

“  In  some  of  the  petitions,”  said  Percivale,  “  it  amounted  to 

a  a  2 


356  The  Vicar s  Daughter . 

a  suppressed  agony  of  supplication.  I  am  certain  he  is  in 
trouble.” 

I  told  him  my  suspicions. 

“  Likely — very  likely,”  he  answered,  and  became  thoughtful. 

“  But  you  don’t  think  she  refused  him  ?  ”  he  said  at  length. 

“  If  he  ever  asked  her,”  I  returned,  “  I  fear  she  did,  for  she 
is  plainly  in  trouble  too.” 

“  She’ll  never  stick  to  it,”  he  said. 

“  You  mustn’t  judge  Marion  by  ordinary  standards,  I  re¬ 
plied.  “You  must  remember  she  has  not  only  found  her  voca¬ 
tion,  but  for  many  years  proved  it.  I  never  knew  her  turned 
aside  from  what  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to.  I  can  hardly 
imagine  her  forsaking  her  friends  to  keep  house  for  any  man, 
even  if  she  loved  him  with  all  her  heart.  She  is  dedicated  as 
irrevocably  as  any  nun,  and  will,  with  St.  Paul,  cling  to  the 
right  of  self-denial.” 

“  Yet  what  great  difficulty  would  there  be  in  combining  the 
two  sets  of  duties,  especially  with  such  a  man  as  Blackstone  ? 
Of  all  the  men  I  know,  he  comes  the  nearest  to  her  in  his 
devotion  to  the  well-being  of  humanity,  especially  of  the  poor. 
Did  you  ever  know  a  man  with  such  a  plentiful  lack  of  con¬ 
descension  ?  His  feeling  of  human  equality  amounts  almost  to 
a  fault,  for  surely  he  ought  sometimes  to  speak  as  knowing 
better  than  they  to  whom  he  speaks.  He  forgets  that  too 
many  will  but  use  his  humility  for  mortar  to  build  withal  the 
Shinar-tower  of  their  own  superiority.” 

“That  may  be  ;  yet  it  remains  impossible  for  him  to  assume 
anything.  He  is  the  same  all  through,  and — I  had  almost  said 
— worthy  of  Saint  Clare. — Well,  they  must  settle  it  for  them¬ 
selves.  We  can  do  nothing.” 

“  We  can  do  nothing,”  he  assented ;  and,  although  we  re¬ 
peatedly  reverted  to  the  subject  on  the  long  way  home,  we 
carried  no  conclusions  to  a  different  result. 

Towards  evening  of  the  same  Sunday,  Roger  came  to  ac¬ 
company  us,  as  I  thought,  to  Marion’s  gathering,  but,  as  it 
turned  out,  only  to  tell  me  he  couldn’t  go.  I  expressed  my 


•"■SSSSS 

lisfsagj 


MV  s 


T’ve  brought  you  something  I  want  to  read  to  you,”  she  said. 


Double,  Double,  Toil  and  Trouble ;  357 

regret,  and  asked  him  why.  He  gave  me  no  answer,  and  his 
lip  trembled.  A  sudden  conviction  seized  me.  I  laid  my 
hand  on  his  arm,  but  could  only  say,  “  Dear  Roger  !  ”  He 
turned  his  head  aside,  and,  sitting  down  on  the  sofa,  laid  his 
forehead  on  his  hand. 

“  I’m  so  sorry  !  ”  I  said. 

“  She  has  told  you  then  ?  ”  he  murmured. 

“  No  one  has  told  me  anything.” 

He  was  silent.  I  sat  down  beside  him.  It  was  all  I  could 
do.  After  a  moment  he  rose,  saying, — 

“  There’s  no  good  whining  about  it — only  she  might  have 
made  a  man  of  me.  But  she’s  quite  right.  It’s  a  comfort  to 
think  I’m  so  unworthy  of  her.  That’s  all  the  consolation  left 
me,  but  there’s  more  in  that  than  you  would  think  till  you  try 
it.” 

He  attempted  to  laugh,  but  made  a  miserable  failure  of  it, 
then  rose  and  caught  up  his  hat  to  go.  I  rose  also. 

“  Roger,”  I  said,  “  I  can’t  go,  and  leave  you  miserable. 
We’ll  go  somewhere  else — anywhere  you  please,  only  you 
mustn’t  leave  us.” 

“  I  don’t  want  to  go  somewhere  else.  I  don’t  know  the 
place,”  he  added,  with  a  feeble  attempt  at  his  usual  gaiety. 

“  Stop  at  home,  then,  and  tell  me  all  about  it.  It  will  do 
you  good  to  talk.  You  shall  have  your  pipe,  and  you  shall 
tell  me  just  as  much  as  you  like,  and  keep  the  rest  to  your¬ 
self.” 

If  you  want  to  get  hold  of  a  man’s  deepest  confidence,  tell 
him  to  smoke  in  your  drawing-room.  I  don’t  know  how  it  is, 
but  there  seems  no  trouble  in  which  a  man  can’t  smoke.  One 
who  scorns  extraneous  comfort  of  every  other  sort,  will  yet, 
in  the  profoundest  sorrow,  take  kindly  to  his  pipe.  This  is 
more  wonderful  than  anything  I  know  about  our  kind.  But  I 
fear  the  sewing-machines  will  drive  many  women  to  tobacco. 

I  ran  to  Percivale,  gave  him  a  hint  of  how  it  was,  and  de¬ 
manded  his  pipe  and  tobacco-pouch  directly,  telling  him  he 
must  content  himself  with  a  cigar. 


358  The  Vicar's  Daughter. 

Thus  armed  with  the  calumet,  as  Paddy  might  say,  I  re¬ 
turned  to  Roger,  who  took  it  without  a  word  of  thanks,  and 
began  to  fill  it  mechanically,  but  not  therefore  the  less  care¬ 
fully.  I  sat  down,  laid  my  hands  in  my  lap,  and  looked  at 
him  without  a  word.  When  the  pipe  was  filled  I  rose  and  got 
him  a  light,  for  which  also  he  made  me  no  acknowledgment. 
The  revenge  of  putting  it  in  print  is  sweet.  Having  whiffed  a 
good  many  whiffs  in  silence,  he  took  at  length  his  pipe  from 
his  mouth,  and  as  he  pressed  the  burning  tobacco  with  a  fore¬ 
finger,  said, — 

“  I’ve  made  a  fool  of  myself,  Wynnie.” 

“  Not  more  than  a  gentleman  had  a  right  to  do,  I  will  pledge 
myself,”  I  returned. 

“  She  has  told  you  then  ?  ”  he  said  once  more,  looking  rather 
disappointed  than  annoyed. 

“No  one  has  mentioned  your  name  to  me,  Roger.  I  only 
guessed  it  from  what  Marion  said  when  I  questioned  her  about 
her  sad  looks.” 

“  Her  sad  looks  ?  ” 

“  Yes.” 

“What  did  she  say  ?  ”  he  asked  eagerly. 

“  She  only  confessed  she  had  had  something  to  trouble  her, 
and  said  she  hoped  it  would  be  over  soon.” 

“  I  daresay  !  ”  returned  Roger  dryly,  looking  gratified,  how¬ 
ever,  for  a  moment. 

My  reader  may  wonder  that  I  should  compromise  Marion 
even  so  far  as  to  confess  that  she  was  troubled  ;  but  I  could 
not  bear  that  Roger  should  think  she  had  been  telling  his  story 
to  me.  Every  generous  woman  feels  that  she  owes  the  man 
she  refuses  at  least  silence  ;  and  a  man  may  well  reckon  upon 
that  much  favour.  Of  all  failures,  why  should  this  be  known 
to  the  world  ? 

The  relief  of  finding  she  had  not  betrayed  him  helped  him, 
I  think,  to  open  his  mind  :  he  was  under  no  obligation  to 
silence. 

“  You  see,  Wynnie,”  he  said,  with  pauses,  and  puffs  at  his 


359 


Double,  Double,  Toil  af.d  Trouble. 

pipe,  “  I  don’t  mean  I’m  a  fool  for  falling  in  love  .with  Marion. 
Not  to  have  fallen  in  love  with  her  would  have  argued  me  a 
beast.  Being  a  man,  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  help  it,  after 
what  she’s  been  to  me.  But  I  was  worse  than  a  fool  to  open 
my  mouth  on  the  subject  to  an  angel  like  her.  Only  there 
again,  I  couldn’t,  that  is,  I  hadn’t  the  strength  to  help  it.  1 
beg,  however,  you  won’t  think  me  such  a  downright  idiot  as  to 
fancy  myself  worthy  of  her.  In  that  case  I  should  have  de« 
served  as  much  scorn  as  she  gave  me  kindness.  If  you  ask 
me  how  it  was  then  that  I  dared  to  speak  to  her  on  the  sub¬ 
ject,  I  can  only  answer  that  I  yielded  to  the  impulse  common 
to  all  kinds  of  love  to  make  itself  known.  If  you  love  God, 
you  are  not  content  with  his  knowing  it  even,  but  you  must 
tell  him  as  if  he  didn’t  know  it. — You  may  think  from  this 
cool  talk  of  mine  that  I  am  very  philosophical  about  it ;  but 
there  are  lulls  in  every  storm,  and  I  am  in  one  of  those  lulls, 
else  I  shouldn’t  be  sitting  here  with  you.” 

“  Dear  Roger !  ”  I  said,  “  I  am  very  sorry  for  your  disap¬ 
pointment.  Somehow  I  can’t  be  sorry  you  should  have 
loved — ” 

“  Have  loved  !  ”  he  murmured. 

“  Should  love  Marion,  then,”  I  went  on.  “  That  can  do 
you  nothing  but  good,  and  in  itself  must  raise  you  above  your¬ 
self.  And  how  could  I  blame  you  that,  loving  her,  you  wanted 
her  to  know  it?  But  come  now,  if  you  can  trust  me,  tell  me 
all  about  it,  and  especially  what  she  said  to  you.  I  dare  not 
give  you  any  hope,  for  I  am  not  in  her  confidence  in  this 
matter— and  it  is  well  that  I  am  not,  for  then  I  might  not 
able  to  talk  to  you  about  it  with  any  freedom.  To  confess  the 
real  truth,  I  do  not  see  much  likelihood,  knowing  her  as  I  do, 
that  she  will  recall  her  decision.” 

“It  could  hardly  be  called  a  decision,”  said  Roger.  “You 
would  not  have  thought,  from  the  way  she  took  it,  there  was 
anything  to  decide  about.  No  more  there  was  ;  and  I  thought 
I  knew  it,  only  I  couldn’t  be  quiet.  To  think  you  know  a 
thing,  and  to  know  it,  are  two  very  different  matters,  however. 


2,6d 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter . 

But  I  don’t  repent  having  spoken  my  mind :  if  I  am  humbled, 
I  am  not  humiliated.  If  she  had  listened  to  me,  I  fear  I 
should  have  been  ruined  by  pride.  I  should  never  have  judged 
myself  justly  after  it.  I  wasn’t  humble,  though  I  thought  I 
was.  I’m  a  poor  creature,  Ethelwyn.” 

“Not  too  poor  a  creature  to  be  dearly  loved,  Roger.  But 
go  on  and  tell  me  all  about  it.  As  your  friend  and  sister,  I 
am  anxious  to  hear  the  whole.” 

Notwithstanding  what  I  had  said,  I  was  not  moved  by  sym¬ 
pathetic  curiosity  alone,  but  also  by  the  vague  desire  of  render¬ 
ing  some  help  beyond  comfort.  What  he  had  now  said, 
greatly  heightened  my  opinion  of  him,  and  thereby,  in  my 
thoughts  of  the  two.  lessened  the  distance  between  him  and 
Marion.  At  all  events,  by  hearing  the  whole  I  should  learn 
how  better  to  comfort  him. 

And  he  did  tell  me  the  whole,  which,  along  with  what  I 
learned  afterwards  from  Marion,  I  will  set  down  as  nearly  as  I 
can,  throwing  it  into  the  form  of  direct  narration.  I  will  not 
pledge  myself  for  the  accuracy  of  every  trifling  particular  which 
that  form  may  render  it  necessary  to  introduce;  neither,  I  am 
sure,  having  thus  explained,  will  my  reader  demand  it  of  me. 


Roger  and  Marion . 


361 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

ROGER  AND  MARION. 

X 

During  an  all  but  sleepless  night,  Roger  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  go  and  see  Marion — not  certainly  for  the  first  time, 
for  he  had  again  and  again  ventured  to  call  upon  her ;  but 
hitherto  he  had  always  had  some  pretext  sufficient  to  veil  his 
deeper  reason,  and,  happily  or  unhappily,  sufficient  also  to 
prevent  her,  in  her  more  than  ordinary  simplicity  with  regard 
to  such  matters,  from  suspecting  one  under  it. 

She  was  at  home,  and  received  him  with  her  usual  kindness. 
Feeling  that  he  must  not  let  an  awkward  silence  intervene, 
lest  she  should  become  suspicious  of  his  object,  and  thus  the 
chance  be  lost  of  interesting,  and  possibly  moving  her  before 
she  saw  his  drift,  he  spoke  at  once. 

“  I  want  to  tell  you  something,  Miss  Clare,”  he  said  as  lightly 
as  he  could. 

“Well?”  she  returned,  with  the  sweet  smile  which  graced 
her  every  approach  to  communication. 

“  Did  my  sister-in-law  ever  tell  you  what  an  idle  fellow  J 
used  to  be  ?  ” 

“  Certainly  not.  I  never  heard  her  say  a  word  of  you  that 
wasn’t  kind.” 

“  That  I  am  sure  of.  But  there  would  have  been  no  unkind¬ 
ness  in  saying  that,  for  an  idle  fellow  I  was,  and  the  idler  be¬ 
cause  I  was  conceited  enough  to  believe  I  could  do  anything. 
I  actually  thought  at  one  time  I  could  play  the  violin.  I 
actually  made  an  impertinent  attempt  in  your  presence  one 
evening — years  and  years  ago.  I  wonder  if  you  remember  it.” 

“I  do;  but  X  don’t  know  why  you  should  call  it  imperti¬ 
nent.” 

“  Anyhow  I  caught  a  look  on  your  face  that  cured  me  of 


362  The  Vicar's  Daughter . 

that  conceit.  I  have  never  touched  the  creature  since — a 
Cremona  too !  ” 

“  I  am  very  sorry — indeed  I  am.  I  don’t  remember - •. 

Do  you  think  you  could  have  played  a  false  note  ?  ” 

“  Nothing  more  likely.” 

“Then  I  daresay  I  made  an  ugly  face.  One  can’t  always 
help  it,  you  know — when  something  unexpected  happens.  Do 
forgive  me.” 

“  Forgive  you ,  you  angel !  ”  cried  Roger,  but  instantly  checked 
himself,  afraid  of  reaching  his  mark  before  he  had  gathered 
sufficient  momentum  to  pierce  it.  “  I  thought  you  would  see 
what  a  good  thing  it  was  for  me.  I  wanted  to  thank  you  for 
it.” 

“  It’s  such  a  pity  you  didn’t  go  on,  though  !  Progress  is  the 
real  cure  for  an  over-estimate  of  ourselves.” 

“  The  fact  is,  I  was  beginning  to  see  what  small  praise  there 
is  in  doing  many  things  ill  and  nothing  well.  I  wish  you 
would  take  my  Cremona.  I  could  teach  you  the  A  B  C  of  it 
well  enough.  How  you  would  make  it  talk  !  That  would  be 
something  to  live  for — to  hear  you  play  the  violin  !  Ladies  do 
now-a-days,  you  know.” 

c<  I  have  no  time,  Mr.  Roger.  I  should  have  been  delighted 
to  be  your  pupil ;  but  I  am  sorry  to  say  it  is  out  of  the  ques¬ 
tion.” 

“  Of  course  it  is.  Only  I  wish — well,  never  mind,  I  only 
wanted  to  tell  you  something.  I  was  leading  a  life  then  that 
wasn’t  worth  leading;  for  where’s  the  good  of  being  just  what 
happens — one  time  full  of  right  feeling  and  impulse,  and  the 
next  a  prey  to  all  wrong  judgments  and  falsehoods  ?  It  was 
you  made  me  see  it.  I’ve  been  trying  to  get  put  right  for  a 
long  time  now.  I’m  afraid  of  seeming  to  talk  goody,  but  you 
will  know  what  I  mean.  You  and  your  Sunday  evenings  have 
waked  me  up  to  know  what  I  am,  and  what  1  ought  to  be.  I 
am  a  little  better,  I  work  hard  now.  I  used  to  work  only  by 
fits  and  starts.  Ask  Wynnie.” 

“  Dear  Mr.  Roger,  I  don’t  need  to  ask  Wynnie  about  any- 


Roger  and  Marion.  363 

thing  you  tell  me.  I  can  take  your  word  for  it  just  as  well  as 
hers.  I  am  very  glad  if  I  have  been  of  any  use  to  you.  It  is 
a  great  honour  to  me.” 

“  But  the  worst  of  it  is,  I  couldn’t  be  content  without  letting 
you  know,  and  making  myself  miserable.” 

“  I  don’t  understand  you,  I  think.  Surely  there  can  be  no 
harm  in  letting  me  know  what  makes  me  very  happy  !  How 
it  should  make  you  miserable,  I  can’t  imagine.” 

“  Because  I  can’t  stop  there.  I’m  driven  to  say  what  will 
offend  you,  if  it  doesn’t  make  you  hate  me — no,  not  that,  for 
you  don’t  know  how  to  hate.  But  you  must  think  me  the 
most  conceited  and  presumptuous  fellow  you  ever  knew.  I’m 
not  that,  though ;  I’m  not  that ;  it’s  not  me  ;  I  can’t  help  it ; 

I  can’t  help  loving  you — dreadfully — and  it’s  such  impudence  ! 
— To  think  of  you  and  me  in  one  thought  !  And  yet  I  can’t 
help  it.  O  Miss  Clare  !  don’t  drive  me  away  from  you.” 

He  fell  on  his  knees  as  he  spoke,  and  laid  his  head  on  her 
lap,  sobbing  like  a  child  who  had  offended  his  mother. — He 
almost  cried  again  as  he  told  me  this.  — Marion  half  started  to 
her  feet  in  confusion,  almost  in  terror,  for  she  had  never  seen 
such  emotion  in  a  man ;  but  the  divine  compassion  of  her 
nature  conquered  :  she  sat  down  again,  took  his  head  in  her  ' 
hands,  and  began  stroking  his  hair  as  if  she  were  indeed  a 
mother  seeking  to  soothe  and  comfort  her  troubled  child. 
She  was  the  first  to  speak  again,  for  Roger  could  not  command 
himself. 

“  I’m  very  sorry,  Roger,”  she  said.  “  I  must  be  to  blame 
somehow.” 

“To  blame  !”  he  cried,  lifting  up  his  head  ;  “  You  to  blame 
for  my  folly!  But  it’s  not  folly,”  he  added  impetuously;  “it 
would  be  downright  stupidity  not  to  love  you  with  all  my 
soul.” 

“  Hush  !  hush  !  ”  said  Marion,  in  whose  ears  his  language 
sounded  irreverent ;  “ — you  couldn't  love  me  with  all  your  soul 
if  you  would.  God  only  can  be  loved  with  all  the  power  of 
the  human  soul.” 


3*54 


The  Vicar  s  Daughter . 

“  If  I  love  him  at  all,  Marion,  it  is  you  who  have  taught 
me.  Do  not  drive  me  from  you — lest — lest — I  should  cease 
to  love  him,  and  fall  back  into  my  old  dreary  ways.” 

“  It’s  a  poor  love  to  offer  God — love  for  the  sake  of  another,” 
she  said,  very  solemnly. 

“  But  if  it’s  all  one  has  got?  ” 

“  Then  it  won’t  do,  Roger.  I  wish  you  loved  me  for  God’s 
sake  instead.  Then  all  would  be  right.  That  would  be  a 
grand  love  for  me  to  have.” 

“  Don’t  drive  me  from  you,  Marion,”  he  pleaded.  It  was 
all  he  could  say. 

“  I  will  not  drive  you  from  me.  Why  should  I  ?  ” 

“  Then  I  may  come  and  see  you  again  ?  ” 

‘‘Yes — when  you  please.” 

“  You  don't  mean  I  may  come  as  often  as  I  like? n 

“Yes — when  I  have  time  to  see  you.” 

“  Then,”  cried  Roger,  starting  to  his  feet  with  clasped  hands, 
“ — perhaps— is  it  possible  ?— you  will — you  will  let  me  love 
you  ?  O  my  God  !  ” 

“  Roger,”  said  Marion,  pale  as  death,  and  rising  also,  for 
alas  !  the  sunshine  of  her  kindness  had  caused  hopes  to 
blossom  whose  buds  she  had  taken  only  for  leaves — “  I  thought 
you  understood  me  !  You  spoke  as  if  you  understood  per¬ 
fectly  that  that  could  never  be  which  I  must  suppose  you  to 
mean.  Of  course  it  cannot.  I  am  not  my  own  to  keep  or  to 
give  away.  I  belong  to  this  people — my  friends.  To  take 
personal  and  private  duties  upon  me,  would  be  to  abandon 
them  ;  and  how  dare  I  ?  You  don’t  know  what  it  would  result 
in,  or  you  would  not  dream  of  it.  Were  I  to  do  such  a  thing, 
I  should  hate  and  despise  and  condemn  myself  with  utter  re¬ 
probation.  And  then  what  a  prize  you  would  have  got,  my 
poor  Roger !  ” 

But  even  these  were  such  precious  words  to  hear  from  her 
lips  !  He  fell  again  on  his  knees  before  her  as  she  stood, 
caught  her  hands,  and  hiding  his  face  in  them,  poured  forth 
the  following  words  in  a  torrent. 


Roger  and  Marion .  365 

u  Marion,  do  not  think  me  so  selfish  as  not  to  have  thought 
about  that.  It  should  be  only  the  better  for  them  all.  I  can 
earn  quite  enough  for  you  and  me  too,  and  so  you  would  have 
the  more  time  to  give  to  them.  I  should  never  have  dreamed 
of  asking  you  to  leave  them.  There  are  things  in  which  a  dog 
may  help  a  man,  doing  what  the  man  can’t  do  ;  there  may  be 
things  in  which  a  man  might  help  an  angel.” 

Deeply  moved  by  the  unselfishness  of  his  love,  Marion  could 
not  help  a  pressure  of  her  hands  against  the  face  which  had 
sought  refuge  within  them.  Roger  fell  to  kissing  them  wildly. 

But  Marion  was  a  woman,  and  women,  I  think,  though  I 
may  be  only  judging  by  myself  and  my  husband,  look  forward 
and  round  about  more  than  men  do  : — they  would  need  at 
all  events ; — therefore  Marion  saw  other  things.  A  man-reader 
may  say  that  if  she  loved  him,  she  would  not  have  thus  looked 
about  her;  and  that  if  she  did  not  love  him,  there  was  no 
occasion  for  her  thus  to  fly  in  the  face  of  the  future.  I  can 
only  answer  that  it  is  allowed  on  all  hands  women  are  not 
amenable  to  logic  :  look  about  her  Marion  did,  and  saw  that, 
as  a  married  woman,  she  might  be  compelled  to  forsake  her 
friends  more  or  less,  for  there  might  arise  other  and  paramount 
claims  on  her  self-devotion.  In  a  word,  if  she  were  to  have 
children,  she  would  have  no  choice  in  respect  of  whose  welfare 
should  constitute  the  main  business  of  her  life;  and  it  even 
became  a  question  whether  she  would  have  a  right  to  place 
them  in  circumstances  so  unfavourable  for  growth  and  educa¬ 
tion.  Therefore  to  marry  might  be  tantamount  to  forsaking 
her  friends. 

But  where  was  the  need  of  any  such  mental  parley  ?  Of 
course  she  couldn’t  marry  Roger.  How  could  she  marry  a 
man  she  didn’t  look  up  to  ?  And  look  up  to  him  she  certainly 
did  not — and  could  not. 

“  No.  Roger,”  she  said,  this  last  thought  large  in  her  mind, 
and  as  she  spoke,  she  withdrew  her  hands — “  it  mustn’t  be. 
It  is  out  of  the  question. — I  can’t  look  up  to  you,”  she  added, 
as  simply  as  a  child. 


366 


The  Vicar's  Daughter . 

“  I  should  think  not,”  he  burst  out.  “  That  would  be  a  fine 
thing  !  If  you  looked  up  to  a  fellow  like  me,  I  think  it  would 
almost  cure  me  of  looking  up  to  you  ;  and  what  I  want  is  to 
look  up  to  you  every  day  and  all  day  long.  Only  I  can  do  that 
whether  you  l^t  me  or  not.” 

‘‘But  I  don’t  choose  to  have  a — a — friend  to  whom  I  can’t 
look  up.” 

“  Then  I  shall  never  be  even  a  friend,”  he  returned  sadly. 
“  But  I  would  have  tried  hard  to  be  less  unworthy  of  you.” 

At  this  precise  moment,  Marion  caught  sight  of  a  pair  of 
great  round  blue  eyes,  wide  open  under  a  shock  of  red  hair, 
about  three  feet  from  the  floor,  staring  as  if  they  had  not 
winked  for  the  last  ten  minutes.  The  child  looked  so  comical, 
that  Marion,  reading  perhaps  in  her  looks  the  reflex  of  their 
own  position,  could  not  help  laughing.  Roger  started  up  in 
dismay,  but  beholding  the  apparition,  laughed  also. 

“  Please,  grannie,”  said  the  urchin,  “  mother’s  took  bad  and 
wants  ye.” 

“  Run  and  tell  your  mother  I  shall  be  with  her  directly,” 
answered  Marion,  and  the  child  departed. 

“  You  told  me  I  might  come  again,”  pleaded  Roger. 

“  Better  not.  I  didn>  know  what  it  would  mean  to  you 
when  I  said  it.” 

“  Let  it  mean  what  you  meant  by  it — only  let  me  come.” 

“  But  I  see  now  it  can’t  mean  that.  No.  I  will  write  to 
you.  At  all  events,  you  must  go  now,  for  I  can’t  stop  with 
you  when  Mrs.  Foote — ” 

“  Don’t  make  me  wretched,  Marion.  If  you  can’t  love  me, 
don’t  kill  me.  Don’t  say  I’m  not  to  come  and  see  you.  I  will 
come  on  Sundays  anyhow.” 

The  next  day  came  the  following  letter. 

Dear  Mr.  Roger, — I  am  very  sorry  both  for  your  sake  and 
my  own  that  I  did  not  speak  more  plainly  yesterday.  I  was 
so  distressed  for  you,  and  my  heart  was  so  friendly  towards 
you,  that  I  could  hardly  'Link  of  anything  at  first  but  how  to 


Roger  and  Marion.  367 

comfort  you  :  and  I  fear  I  allowed  you  after  all  to  go  awa/  with 
the  idea  that  what  you  wished  was  not  altogether  impossible. 
But  indeed  it  is.  If  even  I  loved  you  in  the  way  you  love  me, 
I  should  yet  make  everything  yield  to  the  duties  I  have  under¬ 
taken.  In  listening  to  you,  I  should  be  undermining  the  whole 
of  my  past  labours,  and  the  very  idea  of  becoming  less  of  a 
friend  to  my  friends  is  horrible  to  me. 

But,  much  as  I  esteem  you,  and  much  pleasure  as  your 
society  gives  me,  the  idea  you  brought  before  me  yesterday 
was  absolutely  startling  ;  and  I  think  I  have  only  to  remind 
you,  as  I  have  just  done,  of  the  peculiarities  of  my  position,  to 
convince  you  that  it  could  never  become  a  familiar  one  to  me. 
All  that  friendship  can  do  or  yield,  you  may  ever  claim  of  me ; 
and  I  thank  God  if  I  have  been  of  the  smallest  service  to  you  ; 
but  I  should  be  quite  unworthy  of  that  honour,  were  I  for  any 
reason  to  admit  even  the  thought  of  abandoning  the  work 
which  has  been  growing  up  around  me  for  so  many  years,  and 
is  so  peculiarly  mine  that  it  could  be  transferred  to  no  one  else. 

Believe  me  yours  most  truly, 
Marion  Clare. 


368 


The  Vicar's  Daughter . 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

A  LITTLE  MORE  ABOUT  ROGER,  AND  ABOUT  MR.  BLACKSTONE. 

After  telling  me  the  greater  part  of  what  I  have  just  written, 
Roger  handed  me  this  letter  to  read,  as  we  sat  together  that 
same  Sunday  evening. 

“It  seems  final,  Roger?”  I  said  with  an  interrogation,  as  I 
returned  it  to  him. 

“  Of  course  it  is,”  he  replied.  “  How  could  any  honest  man 
urge  his  suit  after  that — after  she  says  that  to  grant  it  would 
be  to  destroy  the  whole  of  her  previous  life,  and  ruin  her  self- 
respect  ?  But  I’m  not  so  miserable  as  you  may  think  me, 
Wynnie,”  he  went  on  ;  “  for,  don’t  you  see  ?  though  I  couldn’t 
quite  bring  myself  to  go  to-night,  I  don’t  feel  cut  off  from  her. 
She’s  not  likely,  if  I  know  her,  to  listen  to  anybody  else  so 
long  as  the  same  reasons  hold  for  which  she  wouldn’t  give  me 
a  chance  of  persuading  her.  She  can’t  help  me  loving  her, 
and  I’m  sure  she’ll  let  me  help  her  when  I’ve  the  luck  to  find  a 
chance.  You  may  be  sure  I  shall  keep  a  sharp  look-out.  If 
I  can  be  her  servant,  that  will  be  something — yes,  much. 
Though  she  won’t  give  herself  to  me — and  quite^ right  too  ! — - 
why  should  she  ? — God  bless  her  ! — she  can’t  prevent  me  from 
giving  myself  to  her.  So  long  as  I  may  love  her,  and  see  her 
as  often  as  I  don’t  doubt  I  may,  and  things  continue  as  they 
are,  I  shan’t  be  down-hearted.-— I’ll  have  another  pipe,  I  think.” 
— Here  he  half-started,  and  hurriedly  pulled  out  his  watch. — 
“  I  declare  there’s  time  yet !  ”  he  cried,  and  sprung  to  his  feet. 
— “  Let’s  go  and  hear  what  she’s  got  to  say  to-night.” 

“  Don’t  you  think  you  had  better  not  ?  Won’t  you  put  her 
out  ?  ”  I  suggested. 

“  If  I  understand  her  at  all,”  he  said,  “  she  will  be  more  put 
out  by  my  absence,  for  she  will  fear  I  am  wretched,  caring  only 
for  herself  and  not  for  what  she  taught  me.  You  may  come  or 


A  Little  More  about  Roger,  and  about  Mr.  Blacks  tone.  369 

stay— l’m  off. — You’ve  done  me  so  much  good,  Wynnie  !  ”  he 
added,  looking  back  in  the  door-way.  “  Thank  you  a  thousand 
times.  There’s  no  comforter  like  a  sister  !  ” 

“  And  a  pipe,”  I  said,  at  which  he  laughed,  and  was  gone. 

When  Percivale  and  I  reached  Lime  Court,  having  followed 
as  quickly  as  we  could,  there  was  Roger  sitting  in  the  midst,  as 
intent  on  her  words  as  if  she  had  been  an  old  prophet,  and 
Marion  speaking  with  all  the  composure  which  naturally 
belonged  to  her. 

When  she  shook  hands  with  him  after  the  service,  a  slight 
flush  washed  the  white  of  her  face  with  a  delicate  warmth — 
nothing  more.  I  said  to  myself,  however,  as  we  went  home, 
and  afterwards  to  my  husband,  that  his  case  was  not  a  desperate 
one. 

“  But  what’s  to  become  of  Blackstone  ?  ”  said  Percivale. 

I  will  tell  my  reader  how  afterwards  he  seemed  to  me  to 
have  fared ;  but  I  have  no  information  concerning  his  sup¬ 
posed  connexion  with  this  part  of  my  story.  I  cannot  even  be 
sure  that  he  ever  was  in  love  with  Marion.  Troubled  he  cer¬ 
tainly  was,  at  this  time  ;  and  Marion  continued  so  for  a  while — 
more  troubled,  I  .think,  than  the  necessity  she  felt  upon  her  with 
regard  to  Roger,  will  quite  account  for.  If,  however,  she  had 
to  make  two  men  miserable  in  one  week,  that  might  well  cover 
the  case. 

Before  the  week  was  over,  my  husband  received  a  note 
from  Mr.  Blackstone,  informing  him  that  he  was  just  about  to 
start  for  a  few  weeks  on  the  continent.  When  he  returned  I 
was  satisfied  from  his  appearance  that  a  notable  change  had 
passed  upon  him  :  a  certain  indescribable  serenity  seemed  to 
have  taken  possession  of  his  whole  being  ;  every  look  and  tone 
indicated  a  mind  that  knew  more  than  tongue  could  utter — a 
heart  that  had  had  glimpses  into  a  region  of  content.  I  thought 
of  the  words — “  He  that  dwelleth  in  the  secret  place  of  the 
Most  High,”  and  my  heart  was  at  rest  about  him.  He  had 
fared,  I  thought,  as  the  child  who  has  had  a  hurt,  but  is 
taken  up  in  his  mother’s  arms  and  comforted.  What  hurt 

b  b 


370 


The  Vicars  Daughter. 

would  not  such  comforting  outweigh  to  the  child  ?  And  who 
but  he  that  has  had  the  worse  hurt  man  can  receive,  and  the 
best  comfort  God  can  give,  can  tell  what  either  is  ? 

I  was  present  the  first  time  he  met  Marion  after  his  return. 
She  was  a  little  embarrassed — he  showed  a  tender  dignity — a 
respect  as  if  from  above — like  what  one  might  fancy  the  em¬ 
bodiment  of  the  love  of  a  wise  angel  for  such  a  woman.  The 
thought  of  comparing  the  two  had  never  before  occurred  to 
me,  but  now  for  the  moment  I  felt  as  if  Mr.  Blackstone  were  a 
step  above  Marion.  Plainly,  I  had  no  occasion  to  be  troubled 
about  either  of  them. 

On  the  supposition  that  Marion  had  refused  him,  I  argued 
with  myself  that  it  could  not  have  been  on  the  ground  that  she 
was  unable  to  look  up  to  him.  And  notwithstanding  what  she 
had  said  to  Roger,  I  was  satisfied  that  any  one  she  felt  she 
could  help  to  be  a  nobler  creature,  must  have  a  greatly  better 
chance  of  rousing  all  the  woman  in  her,  than  one  whom  she 
must  regard  as  needing  no  aid  from  her.  All  her  life  had 
been  spent  in  serving  and  sheltering  human  beings  whose  con¬ 
dition  she  regarded  with  hopeful  compassion  :  could  she  now 
help  adding  Roger  to  her  number  of  such?  and  if  she  once 
looked  upon  him  thus  tenderly,  was  it  not  at  least  very  possible 
that,  in  some  softer  mood,  a  feeling  hitherto  unknown  to  her 
might  surprise  her  consciousness  with  its  presence — floating  to 
the  surface  of  her  sea  from  its  strange  depths,  and  leaning  towards 
him  with  the  outstretched  arms  of  embrace  ? 

But  I  dared  not  think  what  might  become  of  Roger  should 
his  divine  resolves  fail — should  the  frequent  society  of  Marion 
prove  insufficient  for  the  solace  and  quiet  of  his  heart.  I  had 
heard  how  men  will  seek  to  drown  sorrow  in  the  ruin  of  the 
sorrowing  power — will  slay  themselves  that  they  may  cause  their 
hurt  to  cease — and  I  trembled  for  my  husband’s  brother.  But 
the  days  went  on,  and  I  saw  no  sign  of  failure  or  change.  He 
was  steady  at  his  work,  and  came  to  see  us  as  constantly  as 
before  ;  never  missed  a  chance  of  meeting  Marion ;  and  at 
every  treat  she  gave  her  friends,  whether  at  the  house  of  which 


The  Dca  Ex. 


371 

I  have  already  spoken,  or  at  Lady  Bernard’s  country  place  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  London,  whether  she  took  them  on  the 
river,  or  had  some  one  to  lecture  or  read  to  them,  Roger  was 
always  at  hand  for  service  and  help.  Still  I  was  uneasy — for 
might  there  not  come  a  collapse — especially  if  some  new  event 
were  to  destroy  the  hope  which  he  still  cherished,  and  which 
1  feared  was  his  main  support  ?  Would  his  religion  then 
prove  of  a  quality  and  power  sufficient  to  keep  him  from  drifting 
away  with  the  receding  tide  of  his  hopes  and  imaginations  ?  In 
this  anxiety  perhaps  I  regarded  too  exclusively  the  faith  of 
Roger,  and  thought  too  little  about  the  faith  of  God.  How¬ 
ever  this  may  be,  I  could  not  rest,  but  thought  and  thought 
until  at  last  I  made  up  my  mind  to  go  and  tell  Lady  Bernard 
all  about  it. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

THE  DEA  EX. 

“  And  you  think  Marion  likes  him  ?  ”  asked  Lady  Bernard, 
when  she  had  in  silence  heard  my  story. 

“  I  am  sure  she  likes  him.  But  you  know  he  is  so  far  inferior 
to  her — in  every  way.” 

“  How  do  you  know  that?  Questions  are  involved  there 
which  no  one  but  God  can  determine.  You  must  remember 
that  both  are  growing.  What  matter  if  any  two  are  unequal 
at  a  given  moment,  seeing  their  relative  positions  may  be  re¬ 
versed  twenty  times  in  a  thousand  years.  Besides,  I  doubt 
very  much  if  any  one  who  brought  his  favours  with  him 
would  have  the  least  chance  with  Marion.  Poverty  to  turn 
into  wealth,  is  the  one  irresistible  attraction  for  her;  and, 
however  duty  may  compel  her  to  act,  my  impression  is  that 
she  will  not  escape  loving  Roger.” 

B  b  2 


372 


The  Vicar's  Daughter . 

I  need  not  say  I  was  gratified  to  find  Lady  Bernard’s  con¬ 
clusion  from  Marion’s  character  run  parallel  with  my  own. 

“  But  what  can  come  of  it  ?  ”  I  said. 

‘‘Why,  marriage,  I  hope.” 

“  But  Marion  would  as  soon  think  of  falling  down  and 
worshipping  Baal  and  Ashtaroth  as  of  forsaking  her  grand¬ 
children.” 

“  Doubtless.  But  there  would  be  no  occasion  for  that. 
Where  two  things  are  both  of  God,  it  is  not  likely  they  will  be 
found  mutually  obstructive.” 

“  Roger  does  declare  himself  quite  ready  to  go  and  live 
amongst  her  friends,  and  do  his  best  to  help  her.” 

“  That  is  all  as  it  should  be,  so  far  as  he — as  both  of  them 
are  concerned  ;  but  there  are  contingencies  ;  and  the  question 
naturally  arises — How  would  that  do  in  regard  of  their 
children  ?  ” 

“  If  I  could  imagine  Marion  consenting,”  I  said,  “  I  know 
what  she  would  answer  to  that  question.  She  would  say — 
why  should  her  children  be  better  off  than  the  children  about 
them  ?  She  would  say  that  the  children  must  share  the  life 
and  work  of  their  parents.” 

“  And  I  think  she  would  be  right — though  the  obvious 
rejoinder  would  be  :  ‘You  may  waive  your  own  social  privi¬ 
leges,  and  sacrifice  yourselves  to  the  good  of  others,  but  have 
you  a  right  to  sacrifice  your  children/and  heap  disadvantages  on 
their  future? 

“  Now  give  us  the  answer  on  the  other  side,  seeing  you 
think  Marion  would  be  right  after  all.” 

“  Marion’s  answer  would,  I  think,  be — that  their  children 
would  be  God’s  children,  and  he  couldn’t  desire  better 
for  them  than  to  be  born  in  lowly  conditions,  and  trained 
from  the  first  to  give  themselves  to  the  service  of  their  fellows 
— seeing  that  in  so  far  their  history  would  resemble  that  of 
his  own  son,  our  Saviour.  In  sacrificing  their  earthly  future, 
as  men  would  call  it,  their  j  arents  would  but  be  furthering 
their  eternal  good.” 


The  Dca  Ex . 


373 


“  That  would  be  enough  in  regard  of  such  objections.  But 
there  would  be  a  previous  one  on  Marion’s  own  part.  How 
would  her  new  position  affect  her  ministrations  ?  ” 

“There  can  be  no  doubt,  I  think/’  Lady  Bernard  replied, 
u  that  what  her  friends  would  lose  thereby — I  mean  what 
amount  of  her  personal  ministration  would  be  turned  aside 
from  them  by  the  necessities  of  her  new  position — would  be 
far  more  than  made  up  to  them  by  the  presence  among  them 
of  a  whole  well-ordered  and  growing  family,  instead  of  a  single 
woman  only.  But  all  this  yet  leaves  something  for  her  more 
personal  friends  to  consider— as  regards  their  duty  in  the 
matter.  It  naturally  sets  them  on  the  track  of  finding  out 
what  could  be  done  to  secure  for  the  children  of  such  parents 
the  possession  of  early  advantages  as  little  lower  than  those 
their  parents  had  as  may  be ;  for  the  breed  of  good  people 
ought,  as  much  as  possible,  to  be  kept  up.  I  will  turn  the 
thing  over  in  my  mind,  and  let  you  know  what  comes  of  it.” 

The  result  of  Lady  Bernard’s  cogitations  is,  in  so  far,  to 
be  seen  in  the  rapid  rise  of  a  block  of  houses  at  no  great  dis¬ 
tance  from  London,  on  the  North-Western  railway,  planned 
under  the  instructions  of  Marion  Clare.  The  design  of  them 
is  to  provide  accommodation  for  all  Marion’s  friends,  with 
room  to  add  largely  to  their  number.  Lady  Bernard  has  also 
secured  ground  sufficient  for  great  extension  of  the  present 
building,  should  it  prove  desirable.  Each  family  is  to  have 
the  same  amount  of  accommodation  it  has  now,  only  far 
better,  at  the  same  rent  it  pays  now,  with  the  privilege  of 
taking  an  additional  room  or  rooms  at  a  much  lower  rate. 
Marion  has  undertaken  to  collect  the  rents,  and  believes  that 
she  will  thus  in  time  gain  an  additional  hold  of  the  people 
for  their  good,  although  the  plan  may  at  first  expose  her  to 
misunderstanding.  From  thorough  calculation  she  is  satisfied 
she  can  pay  Lady  Bernard  five  per  cent,  for  her  money,  lay 
out  all  that  is  necessary  for  keeping  the  property  in  thorough 
repair,  and  accumulate  a  fund  besides  to  be  spent  on  build¬ 
ing  more  houses  should  her  expectations  of  these  be  answered. 


374 


The  Vicar's  Daughter . 

The  removal  of  so  many  will  also  make  a  little  room  for  the 
accommodation  of  the  multitudes  constantly  driven  from  their 
homes  by  the  wickedness  of  those  who,  either  for  the  sake  of 
railways  or  fine  streets,  pull  down  crowded  houses,  and  drive 
into  other  courts  and  alleys  their  poor  inhabitants  to  double 
the  wretchedness  already  there  from  overcrowding. 

In  the  centre  of  the  building  is  a  house  for  herself,  where 
she  will  have  her  own  private  advantage  in  the  inclusion  of 
large  space  primarily  for  the  entertainment  of  her  friends.  I 
believe  Lady  Bernard  intends  to  give  her  a  hint  that  a  mar¬ 
ried  couple  would,  in  her  opinion,  be  far  more  useful  in  such 
a  position  than  a  single  woman.  But  although  I  rejoice  in  the 
prospect  of  greater  happiness  for  two  dear  friends,  I  must  in 
honesty  say  that  I  doubt  this. 

If  the  scheme  should  answer,  -what  a  strange  reversion  it 
will  be  to  something  like  a  right  reading  of  the  feudal  system  1 

Of  course  it  will  be  objected  that,  should  it  succeed  ever  so 
well,  it  will  all  go  to  pieces  at  Marion’s  death.  To  this  the 
answer  lies  in  the  hope  that  her  influence  may  extend  laterally 
—as  well  as  downwards — moving  others  to  be  what  she  has 
been;  and  in  the  conviction  that  such  work  as  hers  can 
never  be  lost,  for  the  world  can  never  be  the  same  as  if  she 
had  not  lived  ;  while  in  any  case  there  will  be  more  room  for 
her  brothers  and  sisters  who  are  now  being  crowded  out  of  the 
world  by  the  stronger  and  richer.  It  would  be  sufficient 
answer,  however — that  the  work  is  worth  doing  for  its  own 
sake  and  its  immediate  result.  Surely  it  will  receive  a  ivell- 
done  from  the  judge  of  us  all ;  and  while  his  idea  of  right  re¬ 
mains  above  hers,  high  as  the  heavens  are  above  the  earth,  his 
approbation  will  be  all  that  either  Lady  Bernard  or  Marion  will 
seek. 

If  but  a  small  proportion  of  those  who  love  the  right  and 
have  means  to  spare,  would,  like  Lady  Bernard,  use  their 
wealth  to  make  up  to  the  poor  for  the  wrongs  they  receive  at 
the  hands  of  the  rich — let  me  say,  to  defend  the  Saviour  in 
their  persons  from  the  tyranny  of  Mammon,  how  many  of  the 


The  Dea  Ex.  27  5 

poor  might  they  not  lead  with  them  into  the  joy  of  their 
Lord  ! 

Should  the  plan  succeed,  I  say  once  more,  I  intend  to  urge 
on  Marion  the  duty  of  writing  a  history  of  its  rise  and  progress 
from  the  first  of  her  own  attempts.  Then  there  would  at 
least  remain  a  book  for  all  future  reformers  and  philanthropists 
to  study,  and  her  influence  might  renew  itself  in  others  ages 
after  she  was  gone. 

I  have  no  more  to  say  about  myself  or  my  people.  We 
live  in  hope  of  the  glory  of  God. 

Here  I  was  going  to  write—  the  end,  but  was  arrested  by 
the  following  conversation  between  two  of  my  children — 
Ernest,  eight,  and  Freddy,  five  years  of  age. 

Ei'nest.  Fd  do  it  for  mamma,  of  course. 

Freddy.  Wouldn’t  you  do  it  for  Harry  ? 

Ernest.  No  ;  Harry’s  nobody. 

Freddy .  Yes,  he  is  somebody. 

Ernest.  You’re  nobody;  I’m  nobody;  we  are  all  nobody, 
compared  to  mamma. 

Freddy  ( stolidly ).  Yes ;  I  am  somebody. 

Ernest.  You’re  nothing;  I’m  nothing;  we  are  all  nothing  in 
mamma’s  presence. 

F?*eddy.  But,  Ernest,  every  thing  is  something ;  so  I  must 
be  something. 

Er?iest.  Yes,  Freddy,  but  you’re  no  thing ;  so  you’re  nothing. 
You’re  nothing  to  mamma. 

Freddy.  But  Em  mamma's. 


THE  END. 


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